


We'll Always Have Paris

by Lexin



Category: Desert Peach
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-10
Updated: 2011-03-10
Packaged: 2017-10-16 20:41:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 34,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexin/pseuds/Lexin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an alternate universe to the graphic novel, things might have gone this way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had just started to write the story when I found a book in a second hand shop; it was called "I was Hitler's Prisoner" by Stefan Lorant. I bought it, I thought it was going to be a Holocaust survivor story. Far from it, the book was about Herr Lorant's arrest and imprisonment for an unknown reason - he was never charged with anything and no reason was given for his detainment - between March and September 1933. This was long before the holocaust was thought of even by those who carried it out.
> 
> Having been elected Chancellor in January 1933, Hitler was already interning those who opposed him, already members of the party - the Nazi Party - were acting against those who held jobs that they wanted or controlled interests they wanted to control.
> 
> In spite of this Stefan Lorant wrote, "There is no change in my affection for Germany. I love the country and I love the German people. It is not their fault that things have come to such a pass."
> 
> "They are living in a dream. Their awakening will be a terrible one." This is the story of one such awakening.
> 
> 'I was Hitler's Prisoner' was published in England in 1935.

Somewhere, a long way off, Pfirsich could hear voices. The cafe was empty, and on the window frame there was a notice, in rudely scrawled French: ‘structure unsafe’. He had ignored that and come in anyway, wondering how it had happened. Though he hadn’t been inside when they had met this place would always remind him of the first time he met Rosen.

Hitler had only come to Paris once, to gloat over the defeated French. Pfirsich, an engineer officer, had been part of the unit that became known as the ‘Ghost division’ led by his brother, Erwin Rommel. He remembered the call from Erwin; the hall of the hotel he’d been billeted in had been extremely cold.

“What do you mean, Erwin? You want me to take part in this?”

Erwin’s voice was slightly altered by a crackling wire, but he sounded enthusiastic. Pfirsich supposed he had a right to. “Of course! It’s a great day for the German army! I want my little brother to share in the glory - Hitler in Paris at last, in triumph! Imagine it!”

“Er...very well, Erwin.”

“What do you mean, ‘Very well, Erwin.’? It’s an honour!”

“Yes, Erwin. Of course it is.”

 

Pfirsich knew France well, particularly Paris where he’d spent several carefree holidays and the idea of displaying the might of the German army to his French friends frankly disgusted him. He went along with the charade unwillingly, wondering if he were the only German who felt that way. Later, when the honour guard had been dismissed, he wandered the streets aimlessly.

His wanderings brought him to a district he knew well, pleasant cafés where he had spent many happy afternoons and evenings. Finally he was recognised; one of the café owners saw him take his cap off. “Monsieur Rommel?” he said.

Pfirsich turned, surprised. “Monsieur Gourmont?”

Not surprisingly Guy Gourmont hadn’t been entirely sure of him, how could he be? “Monsieur is here in his - military capacity?”

The shame came over Pfirsich once again. “Oh - I’m afraid so - but I never made any secret of my remaining on the reserve list.” Not a secret, he just hadn’t mentioned it. “And now - as things are -” as he couldn’t remain a teacher without joining the NSDAP, “I’ve been called up to active service.” Not exactly a lie, he had rejoined the army rather than be forced into joining the party. A soldier could not be a party member and it seemed the lesser of the two evils. He just hadn’t expected the Führer to invade France. He had believed, in his innocence, that the Führer would be content with Austria, the Sudetenland and Poland. The bastard - Pfirsich had trouble swearing even to himself - had said he only wanted Austria, the Sudetenland and Poland. Stupid to have believed him.

Pfirsich dragged himself away from useless political meandering, but he felt it necessary to say something. In the end he said, “Na, Monsieur, armies occasionally feel compelled to,” he paused and thought about it, “act the part.”

Monsieur Gourmont smiled, his look was wry, “Oui, monsieur, I know. I was a Sergeant early on in the Rhineland occupation.”

It was the first Pfirsich had heard about it, but he smiled back.

Gourmont went on, “But never mind, come in and sit down - in your old place.”

Pfirsich was hesitant, “Are you quite sure you’re not embarrassed...?”

“My establishment is open to everyone,” he said, then looked at the patrons, “as long as we remember to close our eyes and our mouths.”

One look at the regulars, some even old friends, showed Pfirsich how stupid it would be to go into the café. “Ah...” he put in quickly, “Monsieur - Guy - it’s such a nice day,” it wasn’t, even though it was June, “might I have a table outside?”

Guy caught on quickly. “Oh, certainly. Here?” he pointed to a table slightly out of the way.

“Ah, bon. Merci.” Pfirsich spoke French, one of his accomplishments.

“Wine?” Guy offered.

“Tea?” Somehow Pfirsich didn’t really fancy alcohol. Looking at him he noticed that his old friend had a worn look, one he didn’t usually associate with the normally cheerful looking Guy. He said, “Guy?” His old friend, correct as the waiter he normally was, turned back. Pfirsich went on, “If I know anything of the history of invasions the civilian population is usually,” he groped for a word, “stinted.”

“Hm?” Guy’s expression said, ‘so what?’

“Can I provide you with anything?”

Guy thought for a moment, having a friend among the occupying Germans was a chance too good to be passed up. “Since Monsieur is so kind - bread.”

“Bread?” Pfirsich wasn’t too surprised, “Everywhere we go in France they’re short of bread...”

“Aren’t we?” Guy was ironic, everyone knew this was because the bread found it’s way into the stomachs of the Führer’s army.

Pfirsich was sympathetic, “That’s hard on you French isn’t it? Bread to you is like beer to us.”

“Your officials know it, too.”

“Oh. I’m sure one could ‘redirect’ some of our plentiful supply...” Pfirsich was a supply officer, it would be comparatively simple for him.

“Could one?” Guy seemed surprised, “And in return, Monsieur?”

What on Earth could Guy imagine that he wanted? Pfirsich told the bare truth, “In return for all the happy memories.” And in return for being made welcome in spite of current difficulties. After all, Guy could have ignored him.

Guy went to get his tea, and he was left alone with his thoughts. “Ooooh...” he murmured, aloud, “what I won’t do to keep an eye on my brother. Imagine, trailing after him, all across France, at breakneck speed, in a mobile heavy crane!” His other specialism was engineering, and at times he regretted it. Sometimes it occurred to him that his relationship with Erwin was the most important in his life, certainly no lover had long survived Erwin’s displeasure. “I feel like I’m made of boiler plate,” he muttered, sadly, “and that silly Erwin’s bobbing about like sprung steel.” Amazing the similes that occur to an engineer, he reflected. “And my hip,” he rubbed at the place, “my bad hip...”

It was then he became aware of a feeling. It felt as if someone was staring at him. “Who...?” he turned slowly and saw him, saw Rosen, for the first time.

His gaze took in the breadth of shoulder, the partially undone tie - Luftwaffe regulations were not that lax, surely? - the braces over the regulation shirt, the neat breeches and the very carefully polished boots. The man - and he was very handsome - was smiling at him, leaning negligently against a wall, arm straight, the other hand resting against his hip. Pfirsich could see the huge watch pilots always seemed to favour and the dark grey gloves. Odd that he should wear gloves and yet have his sleeves rolled up. He was still wearing a cap, but it was at a slightly rakish angle.

Pfirsich had to guess at the man’s rank, he had few enough clues to go on, but he decided he couldn’t be too senior. “Yes, Leutnant?” he hazarded.

The man winked at him. He winked, and Pfirsich was rendered totally speechless, he simply had no words equal to the situation, and finally came up with, “Oh dear.” Pfirsich closed his eyes, half hoping that the vision would be gone when he opened them again. It wasn’t.

In fact the man walked towards him, raising his cap. “Hello Herr Major!” He had lovely voice, unfairly warm and compelling. “All alone? May I join you?” The words were polite, the manner was anything but. “What are you having? Let me get it for you, no trouble.”

Totally inadequately Pfirsich said, “No...but...” He didn’t know what he was saying, it could have been anything.

Guy was just coming out of the café with Pfirsich’s tea, and the stranger saw it. He said, “Tea? Garkon?” his French was appalling. “Aporty moy a bottle of good froggie wine on my tab.”

Pfirsich didn’t know what to say. Guy tried his best annoyed French waiter and said, “I don’t recall Monsieur has a tab here!”

That didn’t put the stranger off at all, “So start me one! And make it doo bottles - of the best!”

Pfirsich didn’t want a scene, he really couldn’t cope with one right now. “Guy...go ahead...please?”

Guy left the tea and went back into the café. His back looked disapproving, but Pfirsich couldn’t help that.

“Now, what’s the gracious Herr Major’s name?”

Was there no stopping this boy? Pfirsich tried his best Wilhelminan matron voice, “Young man, have we met?” It should have frozen the young man solid, it worked on most people.

It didn’t work on this man. “I’m Kavalier. Leutnant Rosen Kavalier. Romantisch nicht?” Rosen took Pfirsich’s hand and rubbed it.

The hand tingled where Rosen was touching it, but Pfirsich said, “Oh...come now...” then, “Oh!” as the tingle increased. It was a silly name, he told himself, it had to be some sort of trick.

Apparently Rosen detected his disbelief, he said, “No shit, Major! My mother had this thing for Strauss, you should meet my brother ‘Fledermaus’. So what’s yours?”

Pfirsich could hardly think, “My what?” He tried to pull his hand away.

“Name. Your name?”

“Rommel.” He was finally successful and his name came back to him. “Major Pfirsich Rommel.”

 

Voices came closer, and he could hear the sound of running feet. For a dislocated moment he thought the lithe figure was Rosen himself, black hair caught by the sun. Then the illusion shattered, it was Lieutenant Chapman.

“Furry?” the English soldiers were quite unable to pronounce his name, and he no longer bothered to correct them. “You’ll have to come, we’re moving out.”

Pfirsich stood, and followed Chapman out of the silent cafe. Behind him the notice fluttered to the ground to lie in the winter sunlight.

 

The column moved through the outskirts of Paris, then stopped again. They were following in the path of liberation, liberation slowed down by increasingly desperate German opposition. He could hear the big guns firing in the distance and the column waited for the order to be given to move on. Suddenly a car pulled up beside the stationary vehicles, and a Lieutenant whom Pfirsich recognised as Lieutenant Nicholas jumped out, followed by a Captain. The Captain talked long and earnestly to Colonel Fraser, the already tired commander of this ragtag battalion of infantry men and intelligence officers. Pfirsich was too far away to hear what was being said.

Suddenly the Captain looked up, and saw him for the first time. “Where did that bloody Jerry officer spring from?”

“He’s helping us,” replied Fraser, with studied formality.

Pfirsich looked down at the shabby remains of his uniform. He had removed all insignia and marking from it but it remained the uniform of the Wehrmacht for all that. He despised it and he despised himself.

“Why? Who is he anyway?” asked the young Captain, clearly a man not able to take a hint.

“His name’s Rommel. As for why, don’t you think that’s his business?” Colonel Fraser closed the subject.

The column was moving on again, which shook Pfirsich from his reverie. He took his place in the Land Rover beside Chapman and looked at the back of Major Buckhurst’s head. The young Captain joined the column moving in just behind his own vehicle and it seemed to Pfirsich that he was being watched. It was as if he was seen as some kind of dangerous wild animal, one that might go mad or bite at any moment and already he had seen and heard too much to blame the young man.

He winced as the 7 inch guns ahead fired repeatedly, it sounded appalling even at that distance. Someone called him: “Furry!” He saw that some prisoners were being brought back along the road, their uniforms showed them to be from panzer - armoured - divisions. They looked very young, and Pfirsich was reminded of his nephew, Erwin’s son Manfred, who was not very much younger than these. Some of the young men were injured, they all looked grey and tired and his heart twisted; he did hope that Manfred was nowhere near here.

“Colonel Fraser?” Pfirsich had already guessed that they would be interrogating the men, he was held with this unit to get information and officially he was as much a prisoner as the men he was questioning. The situation was as the British said, ‘fluid’, meaning that as no-one knew where anyone was, anything was helpful and Pfirsich spoke English, French and some Arabic as well as German.

“You know the drill: name, rank, number, which unit and anything else you can get.” At first Fraser had always added, ‘Don’t do anything stupid’, but now he didn’t bother. He didn’t need to.

Pfirsich turned to the first of them. “Now, dear, just tell me what I need to know and...”

He got no further. “Traitor!” The youth spat at Pfirsich, hitting him in the face. “Faggot!”

He wiped the spittle off with his sleeve, and tried again. “Name?”

“I’ll tell you nothing, Jew!” He shouted the last word as if it were the worst pejorative he knew. Two British soldiers in khaki came and took the prisoner away. As they hustled him to one of the cages at the side of the road he was still shouting insults.

To the next prisoner Pfirsich attempted a friendly smile. Absurd as it was, that sometimes worked. The young soldier backed away from him, practically into the arms of two British guards. “What’s your name, Soldat?" he asked.

This one chose to be more sensible, though he watched Pfirsich distrustfully. “Bendl. Heinrich Bendl.”

“Which unit are you from, Heinrich?” Beside him stood Major Buckhurst who took notes as he translated.

“12th Panzers.”

“Who is your commander?” The interrogation went on until Pfirsich had an estimate of the strength, position and morale of the unit, and an idea of how they saw their opposition. He crossed to where Fraser sat, poring over a map. “Colonel?”

“You have it? Good!” He spread the map and Pfirsich looked down at it for some moments, getting his bearings.

Pfirsich indicated with his spectacles, “The 12th Panzers are here and here. They are supported, but not strongly, by an infantry battalion. They are undermanned, morale is not good and some of these boys are relieved to be captured.”

“Anything else?”

“Nein...I mean no.” He was under instructions to speak only English to his captors, but he didn’t think in English and often slipped.

As he turned away he heard Colonel Fraser giving orders to radio in the information. It should allow them to move that little bit faster, every day chafed at him; and he had to face facts: as a result of his own delay and thoughtlessness Rosen could already be dead. Pfirsich shivered. Hope was all he had left and little enough of that, he should hold onto it for as long as he could.

Lieutenant Chapman handed him a mug of the strong tea the British soldiers drank, and he sipped it gratefully. Major Buckhurst strode past him on some errand or other, but spared a smile. Pfirsich knew that if he had friends here they were Chapman and Buckhurst. “That first was a bad ‘un,” said the Chapman, idly.

“SS,” Pfirsich told him. “They hate the Jews, among others.”

Chapman looked as if he might like to know more, but didn’t elaborate and Pfirsich drank his tea in silence.

The battle raged on up ahead, but his unit waited for orders. He saw that Buckhurst looked worried, his job was to see to the ‘disposal’ of the prisoners, to arrange a destination for them, where he could: there were so many that he was constantly busy.

Pfirsich remembered how astonished he had been when the second person he met on being assigned to this intelligence unit had been his old friend from school. He remembered also that Buckhurst had always looked worried, even at school and even when there was nothing to worry about.

It had been rare for Pfirsich to be at home when Erwin was on leave, he was usually away at his military academy in Heidelberg, so he had been thrilled to see his idolised older brother. Since their father’s death Erwin saw himself very much as the head of the family, and accordingly he had asked Pfirsich questions about his studies, questions which Pfirsich had answered quite innocently. To his surprise Erwin had not been at all pleased, though Pfirsich was perceptive enough to realise that the anger was not directed at him.

By the end of Erwin’s leave he had withdrawn Pfirsich from his academy and arranged to send him to college in England. Pfirsich was settled at his academy, he even enjoyed it, they were out of doors more than he liked, but he was taught fencing and he could ride almost as much as he wanted to. He had protested vigorously.

Erwin had insisted that the education his brother was getting was narrow and concentrated too much on the military, his wider academic studies were being neglected. This had to be corrected.

Their mother, not wanting her youngest child, whom she thought delicate, to travel so far alone had protested on his behalf. She had argued that he could perhaps go to a different school in Germany. However, for some reason, Erwin had decided that Pfirsich should go to England; it seemed he had been shown one of their ‘public’ schools and been very impressed. Though not wealthy the family could afford the fees, and Erwin was quite determined that Pfirsich should go there.

He was a good, obedient lad and open rebellion was foreign to him, but he had spent his entire summer learning English rather than riding, and he had heard that they did nothing at these schools other than Latin and Greek. He had arrived after term had started, so Pfirsich had been prepared to hate England, the English and his new school, Stowe.

While he waited outside the headmaster’s study he had discovered that he was not the only new boy to start late. Small for his age, and pale, the other boy had been holding back tears with an effort of will, and Pfirsich was moved. Nobody should have to do this if they didn’t want to, he thought, forgetting that he was in much the same position himself.

“What’s your name?” he had asked.

“Buckhurst. What’s yours?”

“Rommel.” He remembered just in time that they used last names here. Just as well really, going through school with a first name meaning ‘Peach’ was calculated to bring out the worst in other boys. He had found that to stop the teasing he generally had to hurt someone quite badly, which he hated. He reflected that here even if they found out they probably wouldn’t know what the word meant, and he brightened. Unexpectedly his sudden cheerfulness served to lift Buckhurst from his depression.

Two new boys starting together: they it was perhaps only natural that they became friends and Pfirsich found that in spite of all his expectations the college was entirely congenial. Discipline was lax compared with the military academy in Germany and Stowe had a technical bent with good teachers, so his studies were interesting even if English was not his first language.

They had an Officer Corps of course, and he had to be a member, but it was not a large part of school life. His only problem with it was learning to march and parade as the English did: poor Buckhurst lined up directly in front of him and frequently suffered when Pfirsich, in his adolescent clumsiness, kicked him or smacked him in passing with the butt of a weapon.

 

Back in France the light was drawing in and the unit ate. There was a table of sorts, rather soiled, and they sat on benches that had a tendency to tip over backwards, so much so that many men preferred to sit on the ground. In one corner the voice of the radio operator repeated, “I am now giving you a short tuning message, victory, victory, victory,” over and over in one of the flatter British accents. Pfirsich had often wondered why and how the British managed to choose the worst possible speakers as radio operators.

On the road, tanks raced their motors, a sound like the end of the world, then rolled back and forth on screaming treads. Now and then the six inch guns fired, the sound quite appalling, and though they should be accustomed to it by now everyone winced.

Dinner consisted of bully beef, not very hot meat whose provenance he didn’t enquire about, the beans which were the staple canned ration of the British forces, and hard-tack.

Pfirsich chewed methodically, reflecting that poor though the food was, it was better than that he’d been accustomed to in the German army. When he’d commanded a unit in Africa the main staple had been the tinned meat they nicknamed ‘Alte Mann’ or ‘Mussolini’s Donkey’. He could believe that it had been donkey, it certainly hadn’t been any animal Pfirsich had ever been able to identify. At least bully beef was beef of a sort, though he still wasn’t sure about the other meat, it could have been anything.

Dessert, and they were lucky to have any, was hard-tack and jam; Pfirsich ate it with relish, he remembered that in the desert they had lusted after British jam. While they ate, dust sprayed them, tanks throwing it up everywhere. The tea had been brewed in the morning and was now coal black with bits in it. Pfirsich ate without question; as a prisoner he was entitled to equal treatment and he usually received it so he had no intention of pushing his luck and irritating his captors by quoting the Geneva Convention on the treatment of prisoners at them. That could result in his being sent to a mine clearing unit for his trouble. He was lucky to be accorded the status he now held, though it was as a collaborator and he did nothing to jeopardise it.

He saw the young Captain of the land rover staring at him and heard him mutter, “Jerry poof!” to his friend Lieutenant Nicholas. “I hate poofs!”

“What’s got into you?” asked Chapman.

“I don’t like eating with Jerry traitors.”

“Probably he don’t like eating with turds like you, either. You’d prefer he was shooting at you from over the hill?”

Pfirsich finished his meal, such as it was and moved away from the group that had formed. Chapman followed him. “He’s an idiot,” he said. “And Nick’s a fool for listening.”

“I’m a German, dear, and a traitor,” Pfirsich pointed out, reasonably. “I can understand that he would not like or trust me.”

“Trust doesn’t come into it, Furry. He was just being bloody rude to someone too polite to answer back.”

 

The morning saw the column move on again, they were pushing back to the border but Pfirsich wouldn’t allow himself to hope that it might maintain speed, they still had a long way to go. Though Germany was his home there was little enough for him there, only Rosen, if he was still alive. Along with the news of Erwin’s state funeral, news which had itself been horribly ironic considering that Hitler had that good and brave man murdered, he had read of his own public rejection by his family. He knew not to believe anything printed in a German newspaper but seeing his name and his family’s vilification of him as a traitor had hurt, an arrow through his soul. And it was true that the family had no alternative but to reject him, because if they had not Hitler was quite capable of having them all killed, especially once it was discovered that he was a collaborator. Indeed, he remembered seeing orders to that effect even before he had deserted.

He sat in the land rover with the failed suspension bouncing between Lieutenants Nicholas and Chapman, thinking about Africa and Rosen, difficult when every jump jarred his bones.

Pfirsich had commanded a battalion made up of probably the worst soldiers in the Afrika Korps, a Half-track, Support and Grave-digging unit on the fringes of the war. Pfirsich sometimes suspected Field Marshal Rommel came up with these ideas as something to keep his brother occupied and close by.

Rosen, having no doubt ruthlessly bribed and twisted his way to Africa, was stationed a few miles away with his Stuka - divebomber - unit, and had visited whenever he could. With painful wistfulness he remembered that Rosen had usually arrived in the early morning wanting him, and even thousands of miles away and years later Pfirsich blushed at the memory of the things Rosen could get him to do.

Nicholas jabbed him sharply in the ribs. “Wake up, Kraut! Another lot for you to talk to.”

Pfirsich climbed out of the vehicle stiffly and walked over to the dispirited group of prisoners, noting the presence of two civilians, one a woman.

“Collaborators, we think. See what you can get,” Fraser said.

The woman immediately begged him in voluble French to spare her.

“Calm yourself,” Pfirsich said. “I won’t hurt you.” He had a certain strange sympathy for collaborators, perhaps a fellow-feeling.

“You are German?” she was astonished.

“I am.”

“Why then are you working for the British? They are forcing you to do this? Yes?”

Pfirsich swallowed. “It is true that I have little choice,” he said. Though it was not true in the way that she would understand it.

“Why do you not run away?”

He looked round at the milling soldiers in their greenish uniforms, “I don’t think I’d get very far. Now, dear, what’s your name?”

“Lisa. Lisa Malraux. What’s yours?”

“Pfirsich Rommel.”

It didn’t take him long to establish that she was the collaborator that Colonel Fraser suspected. She was pathetically frightened, and with full justification. They had passed through villages and towns where collaborators, suspected or proved, had been hanged by the local population. By far the best thing for her was if Lisa was taken by the British rather than left for the other townspeople to deal with, but he doubted she would believe that. He remembered that in one case a young woman and her child, a little boy, had both been shot through the head. The British were told that the father of the child was a German officer. Pfirsich couldn’t help thinking of his own son, Mani. As far as Pfirsich knew, he was still with his mother somewhere in Africa, he had not heard of the boy in over two years and could only hope he was safe.

He asked for permission to go with Lisa and Major Buckhurst to the schoolhouse, a depressing place pockmarked with shell holes, where she and the other collaborators would await the return of government and proper trials. It was heavily guarded, more to keep the local people out than the suspected collaborators in and was pervaded by a smell of dirty bodies, of people gathered to wait for nothing. Lisa was led into a room full of dreary young women, some with babies and small children, and given a bed in a corner. Sitting on the bed next to hers Pfirsich noticed an aristocratic looking woman wearing a chinchilla coat, and wondered what her story was.

“I thought you were a good man,” was the last thing Lisa said to him.

I was, Pfirsich thought, once. Betrayal and pain had changed everything, even what he believed himself to be.

Outside Buckhurst was trying to make himself understood in French to a policeman and another Frenchman, young and passionate. Buckhurst saw Pfirsich and looked relieved. The two Frenchmen looked anything but, and the younger man eyed him up and down with the utmost suspicion.

“Boche!” observed the man contemptuously.

“I’m a prisoner assisting the Allies,” explained Pfirsich politely, in French.

“And they feed you well, while our babies die from lack of milk!”

Pfirsich didn’t even try to answer that, there was no answer. “Is there a problem?” he asked, trying to sound reasonable. “Perhaps we could start with your name?”

“Philippe de Gallais. I’m here to negotiate with the Allied commanders for more food for the people here. We’re starving while they give the German prisoners cocoa! For this I was in the Resistance?”

“Who does this?” Pfirsich had never been given cocoa or anything like it.

“The Americans.”

Pfirsich translated for the benefit of Buckhurst who looked thoughtful. “There’s nothing I can do. I don’t fix the French rations,” Buckhurst said.

“I can’t tell him that!” Pfirsich protested.

“You’re a translator, Rommel. Translate it, please.”

De Gallais spat on him and Pfirsich reflected that he had now been spat upon by the people of probably every country in Europe with the exception of the Swiss.

Buckhurst had the grace to look discomfited, “Sorry.”

“What do you want the British to do?” Pfirsich asked De Gallais.

“Feed the French people instead of the German prisoners.”

Pfirsich translated this to Buckhurst.

“There’s nothing I can do,” said Buckhurst. “I’ll report the feeling to the local authorities, but I doubt they can do anything either.”

He translated this back to De Gallais, who looked disgusted. “Next, he will talk about the Geneva Convention. We starve and all we hear about is the Geneva Convention. They induce France into a war she can’t win and blame her when she loses. We swap one invader for another.”

“There’s nothing we can do, Rommel,” Buckhurst had guessed what was being said. “But tell him I’ll do my best for them.”

They left at last, De Gallais didn’t seem mollified and Buckhurst looked troubled. “I think they hate us nearly as much as they hated you...the Germans. Sorry.”

“I am German, Buckhurst. You and I both know that.”

Months passed. France passed. Germany was not the home he remembered, Düsseldorf had been flattened by Allied bombing, and the people had a look of defeat, of disbelief, and hunger, a soul-deep hunger that went beyond the physical. This was not what had been promised, the looks said, and though Pfirsich had not believed the promises he shared the horror.

Pfirsich was waiting by the land rover when Colonel Fraser was driven up, the Colonel started speaking almost before the vehicle stopped. “Furry, you’re to come with me. And you Chapman and Nicholas. The column will follow.” The two junior officers jumped to it, and Fraser looked Pfirsich up and down. “Civilian clothes might help, but we don’t have the time.”

“Where are we going, dear?” Pfirsich asked.

Fraser gave him an irritated look, and Pfirsich remembered the man didn’t care for such words.

“To the front, we have found one of those camps.”

The drive was terrible, long and frightening, but Pfirsich hardly understood it was happening. He was afraid, he knew what they were driving towards so could not fail to be, but underneath there was a small kernel of hope. Hope that Rosen might still be alive, if not in this camp then somewhere.

 

Pfirsich had seen one of these places before, he wondered, did they build them all to the same pattern? Given ‘German efficiency’ perhaps they did. It was oppressive, like the other he had seen, wooden blockhouses built to a pattern, high fences with watchtowers at intervals, the ironic words above the main gate, ‘Arbeit macht frei’: as though it did, as though it could.

The ground was muddy, as their car pulled in the rain was falling, a steady drizzle, the way it had been falling when he’d first entered Paris. Pfirsich was sick with fear, he was afraid that he would find Rosen, afraid that he wouldn’t.

There was nothing he could do, he had neither the skills nor the wherewithal to do anything for the living corpses he saw all about him. This was not war. This was something evil, so evil that it penetrated the air he breathed and the ground he walked on. It was as if the very stones cried.

He despaired that he would recognise anyone given the degree of starvation and disease, the best he could say to himself was that he didn’t think his lover was there. When the column arrived he helped in the unloading of medical and food supplies; it would be some days before these people could be moved to hospitals and they needed help now. It was there that Fraser found him. “Why the hell didn’t you tell anyone about this?”

“I did.” Pfirsich said, tiredly. “I told the interrogators when they picked me up. They didn’t believe me. If you recall, Colonel, nor did you.”

“And before you left? Before you so conveniently changed sides, did you tell anyone then? Did you do anything?” Fraser stormed off without waiting for a reply.

Pfirsich watched him go. He shared the anger, the terrified disbelief. More than that, he felt responsible. He was responsible. Not directly, but he was. At first he had believed that the tales he was hearing of the camps, the Konzentrationslager, the use being made of the prisoners and the conditions in them were nothing more than Allied propaganda; even when he had heard such things really existed the enormity of it had not sunk in. Why would they do this? What could it possibly achieve? He had told himself that he had only suspicions, that nothing could be proved and once he had seen it for himself the price of Rosen’s life had been his silence, and by his silence his co-operation.

The SS guards had made off at the Allied approach. Despite their protests, local civilians were made to help bury the thousands of starved corpses and Pfirsich was made to help them. Some of the local people were sick and indeed the stench was disgusting; one man fell to the ground with a heart attack, he died as they worked. The inhumanity the prisoners had been subjected to was appalling and incomprehensible, the most horrible nightmare Pfirsich had ever had could not compare with this.

Night fell at last on the longest day of his life, and he went to rejoin the British column. “Not now, Furry,” said Chapman, coming out of the shadows at him. “This way.” They moved a short way off, out of the way of the British troops. Chapman went on, “I really don’t think the lads want to see a German officer right now.”

Pfirsich dropped to the ground, exhausted. “They think that I do?”

Looking uncertain Chapman watched him for a moment, then he said, “I’ll fetch you some food.”

“Thank you, but I couldn’t.”

“Don’t be melodramatic. Nobody cares and we haven’t the time.” Chapman turned on his heel and left. He was back a few minutes later with some of the warmish meat and beans.

Pfirsich stared at the food. Chapman said, “Your going hungry isn’t going to bring back a single one of those people.” Pfirsich ate in silence; he didn’t feel like it, but he accepted that it was necessary. Suddenly Chapman asked, “Is it true you’re related to the Desert Fox?”

“He was my brother.”

“I fought against him under Monty.” Chapman sighed. “No-one said he was anything other than fair. They say Hitler had him killed.”

“He was made to take poison.”

“Why? I wouldn’t have thought that Hitler could afford to lose that good a General.”

“He was a Field Marshal. Hitler believed that Erwin had been involved in a plot to kill him.”

“And was he?” Chapman sounded genuinely interested.

“No.”

“Pity.”

“I thought so too.” Pfirsich finished his meal.

 

Orders and the Red Cross arrived in the night and when morning came the column moved on. Pfirsich rejoined it without a word.

Following five days of fighting, mostly conducted by others, they reached another camp, one no-one had known existed. Another. Pfirsich’s mind reeled under the enormity of it all. Again he was expected to help bury the mass of corpses, there were more here than at the last. The camp had been first relieved two days before by a platoon of Americans who had not been able to stay long they were chasing the final remains of the German army in a push towards Berlin, so they simply left some food supplies and marched on. Having been starved for so long some of the prisoners had gorged themselves on the food and died of it, a final terrible irony.

Pfirsich found he had nothing to say, least of all to the local people who again were forced into the gruesome labour of burial with him.

A group of ex-prisoners, concentration camp inmates with nowhere to go, stood in silence, watching them work. Now and then one would walk away unable to bear the sight any longer and another take his place. None of the faces made any impression, dead or alive.

Night fell before the work was completed and the local people thankfully went home to return in the morning only if the British could catch them. Pfirsich turned to go. One of the watching prisoners spoke, “Were the corpses in Africa not enough for you, Pfirsich?”

Despite speaking English the ex-prisoner pronounced the name perfectly and Pfirsich felt the blood drain from his face and hands. “Rosen?” he said. He was glued to the spot, unable to look round.

“Did you think I was dead?”

“I didn’t know.”

“But you hoped I was.”

That did make him turn. “Rosen! Nein!” The living skeleton had Rosen’s eyes; having seen them Pfirsich hardly noticed the rags with the pink triangle.

“English. And don’t call me that. My name is Melvin, in case you had forgotten.”

“I’m sorry.” Inadequate, pathetically so.

“I just bet you are.” Rosen shuffled off into the shadows but Pfirsich didn’t follow. He didn’t dare.

Next day Pfirsich knew that Rosen was watching him as he worked, but a crushing sense of his own responsibility, his own failure, kept him from speaking. What Rosen - Melvin - was thinking he had no means of knowing.

That night, crushed by misery, not knowing what to do, he made a serious mistake. He went alone into the trees to relieve himself. Having done so he was making his way out when he was grabbed from behind by a large hand and the unmistakable voice of Lieutenant Nicholas said, “You’re going to die for this, bastard Kraut!”

He had been waiting for this for some days: that someone would decide to revenge themselves on the only German available seemed inevitable. He was frightened, but he didn’t struggle, there was little point and there was nothing he could say. Nicholas produced a gun, Pfirsich noted automatically that it was a Baretta 9mm pistol, and he held it against Pfirsich’s neck, forcing him to raise his head. He punched Pfirsich in the stomach. When Pfirsich doubled over from the blow he pulled his head up again, forcing him back against the tree.

Pfirsich saw a movement behind Nicholas; he assumed some of the other men were there, watching Nicholas teach the Kraut a lesson. Suddenly a knife flew past him, pinning him to the tree by his jacket. Nicholas turned to face the attacker.

In the half light Rosen looked demonic, a skeletal creature from hell come to demand souls. He was still holding one knife and even in his fear Pfirsich wondered where he had found them.

“He’s mine,” Rosen remarked, quite calm.

“You’re English?” Typically, Nicholas latched on to the least important matter.

“If anyone is going to beat him to death it’s going to be me.” The statement was quiet, categorical.

“In that state?”

“I can wait. I’ve waited long enough that a bit longer won’t matter.”

Nicholas moved back slowly and Pfirsich freed himself. As soon as Nicholas was gone Rosen slid down the tree he had been leaning against and sat on the floor. “Are you all right?” Pfirsich asked, then immediately wished he hadn’t. The question was trite, stupid.

“I have been beaten, starved and worked half to death for nearly a year. No, I am not ‘all right’.” He leaned back and closed his eyes, the knife dropped to the floor. “Good thing he believed me, I couldn’t have done that again.”

After a time Pfirsich asked, “Do you want me to help you?”

“You might as well.”

Rosen felt as bad as he looked, under Pfirsich’s hands he was skin and bone, nothing else. Pfirsich helped him to the British column and fetched food, then watched him eat, his main feeling dull surprise. Having Rosen back was a miracle, he knew it was. He reminded himself painfully to use Rosen’s real name, Melvin. It was Melvin now. That was going to take some getting used to. He didn’t know what to do, he had thought only of finding Melvin, had given no consideration to what would happen if he was successful.

 

They stayed some days. As they prepared to move on, Pfirsich discovered that Melvin had persuaded Colonel Fraser to let him join them. He looked appalling, he should have stayed with the medical team. He went to find the Colonel. “Why is Melvin joining us?” he asked, without preamble.

“Melvin?” Fraser creased his brow. “You mean Ramsbottom? He asked me, and the MO said he could cope. And why am I explaining this to you?”

“He’s ill...”

“And no thanks to people like you. Go away, Furry.”

Pfirsich went.

 

Melvin said: “Get me those cigarettes.” It was an instruction not a request, but Chapman leaned over to pick them up. “Not you. Him.”

“But I’m standing,” said Chapman. “And I’m closer,”

“So what?”

Pfirsich fetched them, lit one and handed it to Melvin, ignoring the slight feeling of nausea that cigarette smoke always brought on.

He saw Chapman shake his head in disbelief, “You don’t smoke, Furry. You hate it. Any of the men would help, why are you doing this?”

Melvin answered for him, “None of your fucking business.”

Pfirsich was impressed. He knew Melvin spoke English, his father was English after all, hence the bizarre name, but he had not known that he spoke it quite that well. Now he realised that he now spoke English like an Englishman; previously when speaking it Melvin had used a quite false, almost stage-German accent .

The fact clearly impressed Chapman as well; he ignored the swearing and asked, “Where in Yorkshire are you from?”

Melvin scowled, then relented. “Houghton.”

“Near Doncaster?”

Pfirsich had lived in England for a time before the war, he knew that the moment any Englishman spoke he was placed, socially and often geographically, by anyone who heard him, however he had never seen it so amply demonstrated. He smiled to himself, the joke was that Melvin had been born and bred in Hamburg. At least as far as he knew he had been; Melvin had once said that his father had moved to Hamburg, but had never said when. Or why.

“I’m from Fishlake,” said Chapman.

“You, three other people and a dog.” Melvin said.

“You know it then?” The two men talked on quietly. The accent sometimes made it difficult for Pfirsich to follow what was being said, but it was clear that Melvin had lived in this place with the strange name. They talked of ‘the pit’ and it was some time before Pfirsich realised that they meant a coal mine, it seemed Melvin’s father had once been a miner.

Pfirsich knew a moment’s jealousy, which was quite absurd, Melvin’s attitude towards him had been almost uniformly hostile and he certainly had no right to expect better in the circumstances. To feel jealous because Melvin had found a friend amid this stupidity and terror was merely a symptom of his own vileness. He lay back and closed his eyes, hearing them talk on in the language that was so foreign to him.

He was woken when a stone landed on his chest. Thankfully it was a small one intended to wake him and nothing more. He opened his eyes. It was dusk already? He must have slept for a long time.

He fetched their meals, and again watched Melvin eat. A decent place to sleep had been found for him, the Medical Officer had seen to that. Pfirsich bedded down on the floor nearby, watched by the soldiers. They didn’t seem to like him any better and Pfirsich accepted that. Having seen the camps, it would be hard for them to like a German officer, but they saw Melvin as having more of a right to be unpleasant, and he believed no action would be taken against him by anyone else unless Melvin requested it.

No-one had yet dared ask Melvin why he was so - proprietorial - about Pfirsich, and he wondered what Melvin would say when they did. Pfirsich was still trying to work out what the British commander had been told; not the truth, that was clear. Despite Melvin’s treatment of him Pfirsich wasn’t going to give him away with a thoughtless remark, though the constant vigilance required was difficult in his exhausted state.

The dead, British, American, Canadian and German soldiers were piled up by the roadside in grotesque heaps and each day brought more prisoners, wounded men, tired or angry men, or any one of a thousand faces of defeat and misery.

From all the refrain was: ‘I am not a Nazi’. According to the prisoners there were no Nazis, and never had been. The British looked blank and contemptuous, clearly wondering how this detested government to which no-one paid the slightest allegiance had managed to fight a war for five and a half years. To hear them talk, not a man, woman or child in Germany had ever approved of the war, and it was astonishing how many of them suddenly discovered hidden Jewish ancestry or communist sympathies. Pfirsich wondered if it could be put to music, perhaps they could fit it to the tune of the ‘Horst Wessel Lied’, then the whole country could sing it and they wouldn’t have to learn a new tune.

That night he was woken from the shallow sleep which was all he dared allow himself, by a shot. He sat up, looking round as he did so.

“Quiet!” hissed Chapman.

“I know!” whispered Pfirsich. “What’s happening?”

“Someone’s taking pot-shots at the column from behind that barn. Bloody pest!”

“Oh.” Pfirsich lay back down again and tried to get comfortable.

Melvin sniggered, “You’re not bothered, are you?”

“It’s not my problem. This isn’t Africa and Colonel Fraser’s entirely welcome to his command.”

“You’ve given up,” said Melvin.

“I gave up some time ago,” replied Pfirsich, decisively.

 

One day a remark of: “Herr Oberst Rommel, you know that is true,” varied the usual litany of denial and he found himself looking at the face of one of his own men, or what had been his men until the retreat from El Alamein. It was Kjars Winzig, whom he remembered only too well.

“But Kjars dear,” Pfirsich said, his voice sweet reason. “You were my political officer.”

Winzig went as red as it was possible from him to go given the stubble and the dirt. “Herr Oberst!”

“But then, I suppose someone too mean to pay the party dues can’t really be described as a Nazi.”

“Unlike your orderly, Herr Oberst.”

“Poor Udo. I wonder what has happened to him?” Thoughts of his orderly always brought guilt and for a moment Pfirsich was overwhelmed by it, then he grinned, unable to help himself. “You remember you always suspected he might be Jewish?”

“Your lover, Oberleutnant Kavalier, told me he wasn’t.” Kjars looked confused but was still trying to make trouble.

“Kjars dear, he was.”

“You hid a Jew in our unit in Africa? For three years?”

From behind Pfirsich heard a bark of ironic laughter. He changed to English. “I am pleased that something amuses you, Melvin,” he remarked, trying to convey a warning. Too late of course, Melvin had given away that he understood exactly what was being said.

Leave it to Winzig to make things worse, he recognised Rosen at once. “Oberleutnant Kavalier? What the hell happened to you?”

“A concentration camp happened to him.”

“To him and not to you?”

“The Herr Field Marshal would have noticed if his brother had been disappeared,” said Melvin. Pfirsich left him to it, he had no intention of explaining things to Winzig.

One of the British, one who spoke a little German, came over. “Who’s questioning who?” he asked, crisply. “Move on.”

By now they let him write his report himself and he handed it to Colonel Fraser, who took it and read down the list. “Very clever, Furry. Half these men you didn’t say more than a word to. Would you like to tell me how you did it?”

“This unit was under my command in Africa.”

“You remembered some of their numbers!”

“Well, yes. Some of them I put on report once a week or so for three years.”

“I’m impressed,” said Fraser. “What rank were you?”

“Oberst...I was a Colonel.”

“Specialist?”

“Engineering.”

Fraser looked at him quizzically. “Don’t take this wrong, Furry, but you don’t look the type.”

“Appearances can be deceptive, Colonel Fraser. May I go now?”

“Yes. Oh, and Furry?”

“Colonel?”

“Next lot of prisoners that come in, your friend Ramsbottom is to help you.”

Pfirsich was so surprised that he was out of the tent and almost at the mess van before he realised he should have protested. As usual he was given Melvin’s meal as well as his own; Melvin’s was special food on the orders of the MO, food he complained was bland and dull. They were each halfway through eating before Melvin spoke. “What took you so long?”

“Colonel Fraser had questions about my report on the prisoners.”

“Never thought I’d see Winzig again.”

“No.” Pfirsich had to ask, “What have you told Fraser?”

“At first part of the truth, now about half the truth. He thought I was an RAF pilot, now he knows I was Luftwaffe and I’m officially to be listed as a prisoner of war. He knows I was sent to that place for being queer. I didn’t say it was you who sent me there.”

“Rosen!”

“Melvin.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Is that an apology for getting me sent to a concentration camp or for getting my name wrong?” Melvin put his empty mess tin down. “Why did you do it? I thought you loved me.”

“I did. I still do, I think. But I didn’t have any choice.”

“Oh, please! Don’t give me that bullshit, Pfirsich! Of course you had a choice.”

“I didn’t!”

“It was to protect Erwin, wasn’t it? I used to pray that you’d never have to choose between me and him. I knew he’d win.”

“It wasn’t Erwin.”

Melvin looked confused. “Then why? How could you do that to me?”

Winter 1943. Field Marshal Erwin Rommel known to his friends and enemies as ‘The Desert Fox’ was sent by Hitler to La Roche Guyon to take charge of the French coastal defences. With him, as always, went his brother Pfirsich.

America’s entry into the war in 1941, with her vast stores of food and weapons, had made Germany’s situation ever more perilous. On his return from Africa Erwin had followed the Führer around Prussia, Berlin and Berchtesgaden with Göring, Himmler and others while he tried, with little success, to convince them that the war they were fighting was doomed.

Knowing his brother Erwin’s severe candour and suspecting his unpopularity with the sycophants surrounding the Führer, Pfirsich attempted to curb that candour whenever he could. Pfirsich was rarely permitted to accompany the Field Marshal when he went to see the great man himself, so he was only partially successful. A couple of times Pfirsich saw the Generals watching him, but he ignored it; Erwin needed him, if only to inject a note of caution into his words.

Worse still, the Führer used all of his legendary charm and Erwin seemed to fall under his spell again. Pfirsich had hoped that the thrall Hitler exerted had been broken by the appalling experience of the retreat across the desert, and before that his ridiculous orders to ‘give not an inch of ground’. In Pfirsich’s private opinion Hitler would have been a brilliant General if the figures on his table had been just figures, to be knocked down and set up again next day, rather than real people.

 

The house they had been allocated in France was a strange choice. A large and attractive chateau it had clearly once been a well-loved family home, and Pfirsich wondered who had been moved out to make way for a Field Marshal and his entourage of assistants and orderlies.

The last thing the Field Marshal did before he left on a tour of inspection was to arrange for his beloved wife Lucie to join him, then, in a whirlwind of activity, Erwin took his Generals and headed for the coast. Pfirsich was left at La Roche Guyon to put the HQ into some sort of order, allocate offices and arrange domestic matters.

He wondered still more about the previous owners when he realised that the house had been subjected to a very thorough SS-style ransacking. Paintings and valuables were gone but the rest of the furniture remained and it had been given a very sketchy clean before their arrival.

He was deep in thought over a hastily drawn plan of the chateau when someone smacked him sharply on the buttocks. “Eeek!” he yelped. “Rosen! What are you doing here?” He didn’t need to ask who it was, only Rosen greeted him in this way.

“Visiting,” Rosen turned him round then kissed him passionately, ruthlessly.

He pulled away, “Not here!”

“Then we’ll go to your room.”

“No!”

“Yes. We may not get another chance for ages.”

Knowing it was probably a mistake, he let Rosen lead him up the stairs. He’d chosen a pleasant room, in the spring and summer it would be sunny and bright, but now it was winter and dark.

“How long can you stay?” Pfirsich locked the door and closed the curtains.

“For tonight. I’m based at Le Mans and it’s miles.” Rosen slid off his greatcoat and advanced on Pfirsich meaningfully, finally pouncing on him and continuing the interrupted kiss. Pfirsich pulled away again and Rosen sighed, “Gott! You can be so difficult! It’s easier to get a virgin to drop her knickers than you. Come here!” He grabbed Pfirsich’s wrists and kissed him with still greater violence.

Pfirsich relaxed at last as Rosen’s kisses started to have their usual hypnotic effect. He felt Rosen let go of his wrists, then felt him reach down and cup his balls and rub the heel of his hand over his already hard cock. Pfirsich groaned helplessly. It was very much against his better judgement, but Rosen could always do this. He pressed back, feeling the hard lithe body against his own. He heard and felt Rosen moan into his mouth, and sighed. He could never explain what Rosen meant to him; without Rosen he felt half alive.

Pfirsich was pushed backwards across the bed, Rosen reached down without being asked to pull his boots off and threw them across the room to thump onto the floor. Pfirsich unbuttoned Rosen’s jacket feeling the soft prickle of chest hair under the shirt. He could smell how excited Rosen was, he had a particular scent during sex, something Pfirsich had never known with anyone else.

“I’m not taking this slow,” Rosen said, breathlessly. “Not the first time, it’s been too long.”

“I wouldn’t want you to,” replied Pfirsich, co-operating as Rosen stripped him.

He ended up on his stomach, pressed down against the sheet and mattress. Rosen shoved deep into him and Pfirsich cried out. What made Rosen want him unprepared, Pfirsich didn’t know, and though he had learned to relish the pain it caused him he could not stay silent.

He felt Rosen start to thrust within him and writhed helplessly, pressing himself even more closely into the mattress. He would be raw for days, but he gloried in it. Orgasm started when he felt Rosen’s teeth fasten on him at the junction of neck and shoulder, he was held by the cock inside him and the mouth on him while pleasure swept through him. Only when it was over did Rosen release him and pull back to come violently into him, Pfirsich felt every movement, every shiver of it.

Rosen lay on him for a while, a dead weight, then pulled away. “Gott, that was good,” he murmured. “What did I do with my cigarettes? They’re in my coat...”

“Get them yourself,” said Pfirsich. “I’m not searching your clothes.”

Having done so Rosen came back to bed and lay down beside him, smoking. “I’m on a wet patch. Your wet patch,” he remarked idly.

“I’ll get a clean sheet...”

“Don’t bother,” Rosen pulled Pfirsich to him, “I’m just resting.”

“I’ll do it now, save time later.”

“You’ll make someone a lovely wife,” said Rosen, teasingly.

“I’m ‘engaged’ to you.” Pfirsich was prim, but he smiled. He kissed Rosen and stood up. Now, where had Udo put the sheets? He found them in a cupboard and pulled some out, haphazardly.

“What’s in that box?” Rosen asked.

“I don’t know.” Pfirsich dragged it out to have a look. “Candlesticks...oh!”

Rosen laughed, “That was another cheap trick to get you to bend over. I like to look at your arse.”

“Look.” Pfirsich held up the seven branched candelabra. “I don’t know what this is called but it’s one of the holy things Jews have. I wonder what happened to them.”

“Who cares?”

“I do, and you ought to. I hope Udo hasn’t seen this.”

“Pfirsich, if I wanted to hear about the ‘Rights of Man’, I’d be going to bed with Martin Luther.”

“You are a lout.”

Rosen grinned, “So you’re always telling me. Look, there’s nothing you can do for these rich Jews, sweetheart. Don’t worry about it.”

“I can’t help it.”

“I know. Come back to bed?”

Reluctantly Pfirsich put the candelabra back in the box and returned to Rosen’s arms. “I wish Le Mans was closer,” he said.

“Himmel! So do I.” Rosen kissed him again, then he rolled him onto his back and held him down.

 

On the third day at La Roche Guyon Udo Schmidt had barged in with a note. “For you, Herr Oberst,” he announced. Pfirsich thought that his orderly had been spoiled by living in tents for so long on the desert campaign; knocking now seemed foreign to his nature.

“Surely not, dear. They must have mistaken me for Erwin.” Even from across the room Pfirsich could see the SS symbol on the paper.

“No, Herr Oberst.”

Indeed to make sure there could be no confusion the letter was addressed to ‘Manfred Pfirsich Marie Rommel’. He took it. “Thank you, Udo, dear.” Already somewhat nervous he opened it. An invitation to lunch with an Obergruppenführer Maisel, the invitation was polite but Pfirsich knew that no excuse short of death would enable him to avoid it. What on Earth did the man want? What had he done to attract the attention of the SS?

He dressed with care. His best uniform, his medals including the Iron Cross first class and wound badge: he made sure he looked everything a Colonel of the Wehrmacht was meant to be, at least as far as he was able.

He didn’t like the person he became when wearing the uniform and suspected no-one else did, the stress of behaving in a way considered sufficiently ‘manly’ by the people around him soured his temper. It was unnatural, he was himself, he shouldn’t have to behave like someone else. As he dressed he longed for the comparative freedom of the desert campaign, there he had been able to wear what he pleased, soft peach-coloured breeches and a black flying jacket Rosen had given him being his most usual choice. He looked at himself in the mirror; he looked good but not like himself.

To his surprise Obergruppenführer Maisel greeted him very politely with a: “Heil Hitler!”

The Hitler salute set Pfirsich’s teeth on edge as it always did and always had.

The Obergruppenführer said: “Herr Oberst Rommel, it is good to see you. We met in Berlin, if you recall?”

Pfirsich didn’t remember meeting him before, and said something noncommittal.

The Obergruppenführer was based at the town of Laon, though he lived in a house at the edge of the town, one which had clearly been built recently. Even in the winter, the town had a chocolate-box charm that was hard to resist. “How is your brother the Field Marshal?” the Obergruppenführer asked. “I trust the coast is agreeing with him?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“That sounds as if you are not sure, Herr Oberst.” The Obergruppenführer laughed, sounding bright and genial.

Pfirsich knew more than enough of these people to be on his guard. “I have seen little of the Field Marshal since we arrived in France.”

“Indeed? Come, I will show you the gardens while we wait for lunch.”

They went outside. Pfirsich followed, but he couldn’t imagine what there might be see at this time of year and in such icy weather.

The Obergruppenführer became quite animated as he outlined his plans for the spring, gardening seemed to be his passion. His ideas were ambitious, a great deal of work needed doing, and Pfirsich wondered where he would get the men to do it all. Suddenly Pfirsich sniffed, the wind had changed and there was an appalling smell drifting over the garden, a smell like the charnel house in the bottom-most pit of hell.

“The wind has changed,” said the Obergruppenführer, as if he had just noticed. “We’ll go in.”

During lunch, though the food was pleasant enough and Pfirsich didn’t much care for the Obergruppenführer’s unhealthy interest in Erwin, he couldn’t quite forget that smell.

Coffee was served at last by the Obergruppenführer’s very polite and careful young servant. Pfirsich had noticed this man more than once during the meal; he could have sworn the lad was Polish, and he didn’t like the looks of fear that were directed at both him and his host.

“Before you go, Herr Oberst, perhaps you would care to take a drive with me?” the Obergruppenführer invited. There was nothing Pfirsich wanted to do less, but he was hardly in a position to refuse.

They drove a mile or so through the town and came to a camp. Wire surrounded it and tall towers stood at intervals along the fence. As they drew closer the smell grew worse and he could see in the centre of the camp a squat tower with oily black smoke issuing from it. There was a gate, above it the words of the National Socialist slogan ‘Arbeit macht frei’ were emblazoned. At the gate they stopped, but only for a moment, the Obergruppenführer showed a pass and they were waved on.

 

There were buildings either side of the gate, and behind them a parade ground. To one side of the parade ground Pfirsich noticed a gibbet, and hanging from it the bodies of three men. At least he thought they were bodies, until one of them moved. Then he realised that the gibbet was too low, the tallest of the three could just touch the ground with his toes. Hanging like that he could take days to die. Pfirsich felt sick.

There was ice on the ground but even so a group of prisoners waited on the parade ground, shivering and naked. He wanted to protest, to do something for them, but one look at the Obergruppenführer’s face stopped him from saying anything. It would be quite useless.

He and the Obergruppenführer were met by the Lagerkommandant an SS Standartenführer and two guards. They were shown round the camp as if it was something wonderful, the latest Messerschmidt factory could not have given the Commandant as much pleasure as did his camp. It was made up of a large number of wooden blockhouses, and in the centre of them were the other facilities, the kitchens, the bunker where he was told they kept the ‘difficult’ prisoners, the laundry, and the crematorium, source of the black smoke. Here prisoners in blue and grey striped uniforms with a triangular coloured patch on the breast, fed the fires.

“Today’s crop,” said the Obergruppenführer, with evident pride. “See the triangles? That’s how we know what sort of scum we’re dealing with.”

Pfirsich spoke aloud, without realising he had done so, “This is evil...”

He was interrupted. “Is it?” The Obergruppenführer sounded uninterested, perhaps he just wanted to shut Pfirsich up.

He was shown the clay mine, mining was the ostensible purpose of the place. It was unspeakable, groups of five of six prisoners filled carts with clay and another group then pushed them on rails up a long steep bank, a task almost impossible for half-starved men covered with slippery marl. All the time the men were beaten by others, by guards or even other prisoners. Pfirsich’s mind reeled: as he watched a group of prisoners ran out of strength and their cart ran back down the hill into another, crushing a man who got between them. Pushed by the impact, the cart behind ran back and over a man’s foot. He screamed and was dragged away, still screaming: “Not the doctor! Not the doctor!” in French. The body was dragged away leaving a bloody trail. The accident seemed to make the guards angrier, they redoubled their efforts with the whips. Pfirsich opened his mouth to protest, then realised that the two guards and the Lagerkommandant were watching him. The Obergruppenführer looked thoughtful.

Last of all he was led to another prison blockhouse. “This,” the Obergruppenführer told him, “is where we keep the filthy, shitty, queers.” He paused for effect. “Queers, Herr Oberst Rommel, like you.”

Fear closed Pfirsich’s throat and he couldn’t speak; protest and denial died.

“This way.” To his astonishment the Obergruppenführer led the way out of the dark barrack to the parade ground. With relief Pfirsich saw that the tall prisoner had stopped struggling and appeared quite dead. A scream rent the air. “Ah,” said the Obergruppenführer. “Medical research. So useful.”

They didn’t go far, just to the bunker to a green-painted room with two chairs and a simple table. He was told to sit down. When he didn’t obey immediately the order was repeated: “Sit down!”

He sat and waited, terrified, shaking.

The Obergruppenführer spoke: “You are a disgrace to the uniform you wear and how you have escaped notice this far amazes me. Your brother protects you, for what filthy queer reason I don’t know. But I can guess.”

At long last Pfirsich found his voice, “You are implying that Erwin and I...”

Before he could finish he was slapped across the face. “Quiet! You will answer my questions, all of them, without hesitation.”

“No!” Pfirsich moved to stand, but at once the two guards, of whom he had been peripherally aware, grabbed him and made him sit down again. Since he couldn’t move or escape he sat in silence. He was convinced he would end up in the camp and therefore there was nothing to be gained from speaking.

Finally after a great many questions, many blows and complete silence from Pfirsich the Obergruppenführer said, “I do not approve of this trafficking with queers, but you leave me no choice.” He pulled Pfirsich by the hair, making him face into the light. “You have a bum-boy lover. His name is Melvin Gonville Ramsbottom, but he calls himself ‘Der Rosen Kavalier’. He’s a pilot in the Luftwaffe.”

“No!” Another blow fell, making his head ring.

The Obergruppenführer shouted: “Do not lie to me, shitheap. You have a friend, unlikely as it seems. His name’s Wilhelm Taliaferro, he’s known as ‘Willie’. He’s English, a soldier, and he’s a prisoner in Oflag IVc, Schloß Colditz. In case you don’t believe me, here’s his picture.” The Obergruppenführer showed him a photograph of Willie taken a few days before, holding a German newspaper. He looked pale and thin and puzzled. “I propose a bargain. You can keep yourself, your friend and your lover out of the camps for the time being if you tell me what I need to know.” His voice softened, and he caressed Pfirsich’s face in a parody of a lover’s touch. “You are doing yourself no good by this silence. You can keep yourself and them safe. But you keep silent and you all end up in the camp, Willie, this ‘Rosen’, and then you. You last. Do you have the right to do that to them, Pfirsich?”

While it was himself in danger he could keep silent, but when the danger extended to Rosen and worst of all to poor Willie, innocent and unsuspecting, he had no choice. He talked. Oh, he glossed over what he could, held back a great deal but he did talk. It took hours. At the end he was given water, his throat ached so much it was a welcome relief.

He still half expected to be taken back to the camp to stand naked and shivering with the rest of the prisoners, and he would have endured it to keep Rosen and Willie safe. But now the full horror of his situation revealed itself. He was to be sent back to La Roche Guyon to spy on his brother. He had always suspected that the Generals hated Erwin, but to have it unexpectedly proved in this way was almost as much of a shock as the camp.

“Pfirsich, listen to me,” the Obergruppenführer enunciated carefully. “This is important, it will keep you and your friends alive.

“I will contact you every few days, you will visit me...oh, don’t worry, I’ll send a car for you. If you don’t come, or don’t have the information I need I’ll make sure you suffer, or your darling Rosen, or your dear ‘Willie’. You understand?”

“Yes,” Pfirsich whispered, unwillingly. He felt sick, really as if he was going to vomit. He found the strength to ask, “How do I know I can trust you?”

“Not stupid, then. We’ll prove to you - from time to time - that they’re alive and well. If you do as you’re told.” The Obergruppenführer waved a sheaf of papers. “You will sign these. You don’t need to read them, I’ll tell you what they are.” He pulled the first off the pile and Pfirsich saw that it was a Wehrmacht transfer order. The Obergruppenführer said, “This is an order posting your orderly to the Russian front.”

Pfirsich was horrified. “I...I can’t...” he stammered.

A pen was put into his hand, the Obergruppenführer said, “Sign, please,” in a voice that was all the more menacing for being quiet. He signed and the paper was handed to one of the guards. “Take this now,” the guard was told, and the Obergruppenführer turned back to Pfirsich. “By the time you get back to La Roche Guyon your dear Udo Schmidt will have left for the East.”

Faintly, as if from a great distance, Pfirsich heard the guard leave. ‘Poor Udo,’ he thought, helplessly. ‘He’ll never forgive me.’ He felt, knew, that it was a betrayal of friendship and Pfirsich knew that he would never forgive himself. But he had no choice, not if he were to protect two other lives, and Udo might not die. The thoughts chased themselves uselessly round his head.

“Now, Pfirsich,” said the Obergruppenführer warningly, “you’re not the only spy at La Roche Guyon.” The smile became friendly but Pfirsich wasn’t fooled. “I wouldn’t like you to think that you are working alone.” The voice hardened, “You will be watched day and night, as you will watch others, especially your brother.”

Pfirsich’s heart contracted painfully, he realised that even with others around him he would be completely alone. For the first time in his life he felt real fear.

So began a dangerous game. At least, he tried to tell himself it was a game, and he knew the last thing he could afford was self-pity, but it was deadly serious.

Erwin returned from his tour of inspection full of plans for the defences; just as well, the small doings of the Field Marshal’s staff officers wouldn’t have interested anyone. It gave Pfirsich something to tell Obergruppenführer Maisel when he was next summoned to Laon. The Obergruppenführer noted the information without comment and Pfirsich wondered to whom he reported it all; clearly it wasn’t entirely in his own interests that Maisel was going to all this trouble. And what on Earth were they expecting Erwin to do? Betray his oath to the Führer? Pfirsich knew his brother would rather die.

He longed to tell Erwin, but knew neither how or where to begin. Curiously for a man whose entire adult life had been given over to warfare Erwin believed in the essential goodness of his fellow man. He fought because he was a warrior, that was his calling, not because of any hatred for his opponent. On the contrary, he honoured them in victory or defeat. Even if he were able to come up with a foolproof way to tell Erwin, and none presented itself, Erwin was often away and when he was at La Roche Guyon he seemed constantly busy. Added to which, telling Erwin about the camp - and how else would he explain his present predicament, it was clear half the truth wouldn’t do - would mean that Erwin would immediately go to the Führer to protest. Pfirsich was convinced the Führer already knew what was happening, the idea that such things could happen without the Führer’s knowledge was something Pfirsich refused to credit. Having a senior Field Marshal point out to him the cruelty and waste of it would almost certainly cause Erwin’s death, directly or indirectly, and that would neither get him out of his predicament nor save a single life.

He knew that Erwin’s rank would not necessarily protect him, it hadn’t protected General Guderian, after a minor disagreement with the Führer he had been out of favour for many months, and this was not a minor disagreement; the internment of political enemies had been a major part of the Führer’s policy since he came to power. People - important people - were regularly ‘disappeared’ for making jokes about the government, let alone criticising Hitler personally and to his face.

Pfirsich also missed Udo terribly. In some ways Udo was like Rosen, he had a joie de vivre which was infectious, something Pfirsich had always felt that his cold sterile life lacked. He was so terribly alone at La Roche Guyon.

“Herr Oberst Rommel?” Pfirsich recognised his new ‘orderly’ Obergefrieter Barkhorn.

“Yes, Barkhorn?” More than anything he missed the easy camaraderie he and Udo had developed. The very idea of calling Barkhorn ‘dear’ was unthinkable, he didn’t do it even by accident.

“Message for you, Herr Oberst.”

“Thank you.” Even under these circumstances Pfirsich’s good manners didn’t desert him, but his hands went cold when he realised it was another summons from Obergruppenführer Maisel. Quickly, he ripped it open and read the contents. No-one who wasn’t aware of Pfirsich’s position would have thought the note anything other than a dinner invitation from a friend, but Pfirsich felt physically ill. “I’m going out tomorrow evening.”

“Jawohl, Herr Oberst.” The summons was no surprise to Barkhorn, and Pfirsich hated that look of cynical knowledge. Now he understood what was meant when people were said to have a ‘something cruel’ about them. Barkhorn seemed to enjoy Pfirsich’s discomfort, to relish his loneliness and misery, and he never missed a chance to remind him of his position of virtual slave to Obergruppenführer Maisel. This time was no exception. “The Herr Obergruppenführer has commanded that you wear what will be put out for you and nothing else.”

Pfirsich didn’t sleep, he had very little to report and the Obergruppenführer would be annoyed. The danger to Rosen and Willie was real and frightening. And ‘dinner’? It had always been ‘lunch’ before, not that Pfirsich would be offered food or would have been able to eat if he was. All day he worried, uselessly. When evening came he went to his room to change and he found Barkhorn laying out the last of his clothes. It was the outfit he had worn in Africa; where had Barkhorn found that? He knew it had been put away in a drawer in his room in Erwin’s house in Herrlingen. Which could only mean that the family home had been searched.

Rosen wasn’t a great correspondent, the most Pfirsich had ever received from him was a short note to say that his unit had been reassigned, but the same was certainly not true of at least one of his past lovers. All this flashed through his mind in a moment. The threat to Rosen was something that hovered in his mind constantly - not just the possibility that Rosen might be killed, but that he might be imprisoned, tortured. This line of thought was getting him nowhere.

Lucie Rommel had arrived that day, as always she was polite but cool to her husband’s younger brother. Erwin believed that Pfirsich and Lucie were the best of friends and Pfirsich had never had the heart to tell him that he and Erwin’s adored wife didn’t care all that much for each other. Now he wished that they really were close friends; she would have been able to get Erwin to listen, he always listened to Lucie. But Pfirsich didn’t trust even her, her arrival coincided too neatly with the search.

Udo Schmidt had been accustomed to Pfirsich’s modesty, he had always disappeared without making a fuss when Pfirsich dressed in the morning or when he readied himself for bed at night, reappearing when the task was complete. Barkhorn watched. He was not just present, he watched, and while changing Pfirsich felt as if he were something small, wriggling under a microscope.

As promised, Obergruppenführer Maisel sent his own car and driver. Pfirsich didn’t wear an overcoat though the clothes were hardly suitable for December. He half hoped that Erwin would see him and ask where he was going dressed like that. He might just be able to sow doubts and questions in his brother’s mind, Erwin might be a little naïve in some ways, but he was not stupid. Pfirsich was unlucky, no-one noticed him leave.

Pfirsich arrived in Laon, and the Obergruppenführer was all genial bonhomie. Pfirsich felt sick, somehow he feared and distrusted him most in this expansive mood. “Heil Hitler! My dear Herr Oberst Rommel, sit down.”

By now Pfirsich knew to obey immediately. “Heil Hitler,” he said, very quietly. Two SS men took their places behind him. Pfirsich sat, unmoving, hands in his lap. He saw that the Obergruppenführer was wearing the full SS formal evening uniform, the short jacket and white waistcoat rather like an English gentleman’s evening dress, but with a silver lanyard, hand-sewn silver epaulettes and silver buttons. It was most impressive, even he had to admit that.

“What have you been doing with yourself, Pfirsich?” the Obergruppenführer asked, lighting a cigar.

“The Herr Field Marshal has assigned me some work on the defences; I have visited the harbour at Roulle sur Mare...” Pfirsich gave a careful, factual account of his movements, dates, times, places, people. At the end he waited in silence.

The Obergruppenführer watched him for a long time. Then he said, “Now, Pfirsich, tell me again. This time you can do it on your knees.” When Pfirsich didn’t move immediately the two SS men each took an arm and forced him to the floor. The spurs on his tall boots dug into him painfully. “Again, Pfirsich,” said the Obergruppenführer.

Pfirsich had been in a riding accident when younger, his hip had never been the same and by the end of his recitation it was agony. He had been thinking all night what he should say and repeated the report he had given almost word for word.

“And Erwin?” the Obergruppenführer asked at the end.

“The Herr Field Marshal...” Pfirsich gave as good an account as he could of his brother’s movements and the orders he had given. There had been no time over the last couple of weeks for them to have any private discussions so Pfirsich could be reasonably certain that anything he said was already known.

“What do you know of von Tempelhoff?”

“He is a friend of the Field Marshal’s.” The question surprised him so much Pfirsich almost forgot the pain. “They were together in Italy. Von Tempelhoff has an English wife, whom he has sent to Bavaria to be safe. Her name is Helen.”

“Has Erwin known him long?”

“Since 1938.”

“How well does he know him?”

“Well enough.” On the other hand Pfirsich himself knew Helen von Tempelhoff very well. Indeed, she and Pfirsich had become friends when he was in London before the war.

His hopes were dashed when the Obergruppenführer said, “In that case he will be useful to us.” Any thought of confiding in von Tempelhoff disappeared. Looking at one of the buttons on the Obergruppenführer’s jacket, he concentrated on trying to will away the pain. It was embossed with SS runes, surrounded by oak leaves and he stared at it until its glittering beauty was the only thing he could see. It occurred to him, with a bubble of humour, that these people had no restraint.

When at last the interrogation was over the Obergruppenführer smiled down at him, that pleased smile that Pfirsich had already learned to hate. “You will be happy to have news of your friends,” he said.

“Yes, Herr Obergruppenführer.”

“Here,” the tone was of false kindliness as he handed Pfirsich the two photographs.

Willie Taliaferro had been pictured against a blank stone wall. He was holding the most recent issue of the German forces magazine, Signal, and his expression was resigned. Rosen was pictured in an operations room, half turned away chalking something on a mission roster. The date was three days before. He reflected that whatever information they were getting from him it must be worth a great deal for them to go to the trouble and expense of procuring these pictures.

“He’s looking well, don’t you think, your Rosen?”

“Yes. Thank you, Gracious Herr Obergruppenführer.” Pfirsich remembered what he was supposed to say just in time, he had been told that if he forgot the Obergruppenführer might well stop ‘reassuring’ him. Rosen did indeed look very well, the picture had captured the impression he gave of perpetual movement and brightness. Reluctantly, Pfirsich handed the photographs back. The moment of humour was gone, he was frightened and miserable and he longed for Rosen to hold him.

“You must keep him that way,” the threat was unmistakable.

Obergruppenführer Maisel made Pfirsich report to him the Field Marshal’s plans and actions every few days, at least once a week. Sometimes the Obergruppenführer came to La Roche Guyon or a town nearby, sometimes Pfirsich had to go to Laon. He was given a picture of Willie, Rosen, or both every few reports, just often enough to reassure him that they were both well and safe. So far.

Von Tempelhoff arrived at La Roche Guyon as the Field Marshal’s 1a, his executive officer and immediate subordinate. Pfirsich sometimes wondered why when Erwin took his three dogs, his 1a and just about anyone else on his tours he never took Pfirsich. He worried that his appearance or manner, undeniably feminine as Udo Schmidt had told him more than once, shamed Erwin. If asked, Erwin denied it strenuously; but he still kept his brother out of the way. Pfirsich often found himself wishing that Helen von Tempelhoff was with them; she knew him well, she knew about him and he trusted her. He would have told her everything. There was no-one at the chateau he trusted not to be in Maisel’s pay.

If there was anything strange about him no-one had yet noticed it. He knew that had always been seen as competent but odd, if he was quieter and more solitary it was hardly worthy of comment.

One night after the evening meal he returned to his office to finish the drawings for the alterations to the harbour at Lisle. He found that if he worked constantly he could deal with his increasing fear. Reading Paris-Match and the other personalities magazines, his main recreation, did not distract his mind sufficiently; and knowing that Maisel was reading all his correspondence made letter-writing a formality to be observed rather than a pleasure.

He used only a desk lamp and the room had some very dark corners so perhaps it was that which allowed von Tempelhoff to stand there for so long without being seen. It wasn’t until Pfirsich dropped his pencil and in picking it up came face to face with his old acquaintance that he even realised he was there.

“Helen sends her love.” Von Tempelhoff had lived in England for a long time before the war, and like the English he often took refuge in formalities.

“Thank you. Send her mine when you write.” Pfirsich sharpened the pencil and turned back to the plans.

“Do you want to tell me anything, Pfirsich?”

“No. Why?”

“You’re doing three men’s jobs, you know. Your own, that fool Behrendt is supposed to be in charge of engineering but he’s always in Paris drunk and you cover for him, and you do mine. I am grateful, without you I’d be up all night doing paperwork, but you’ll wear yourself out.”

“I used to tell Erwin that.” When he had time for me, thought Pfirsich, with a rare flash of resentment.

“You and the Field Marshal are very alike in some ways,” Tempelhoff told him, resigned. “Do you know it’s after midnight? Go to bed.”

“I’ll just finish this...”

“Go to bed,” von Tempelhoff repeated, quietly.

Pity from one of Maisel’s spies was almost more than Pfirsich could take. Rather than break down in front of von Tempelhoff he switched off the lamp and stood up. He didn’t trust himself to speak but heard von Tempelhoff’s quiet, “Good night.” Of course, now he had to face his orderly’s withering contempt while he undressed, but he managed not to start crying until he was alone.

Next day at breakfast he felt guilty, wretched, and had a blinding headache. Erwin noticed at once. “Something wrong, Brüderlein?” he asked kindly, as if nothing had changed.

It wasn’t until he tried to speak that Pfirsich realised how raw his throat was. “No,” he replied, in as normal a voice as he could manage.

“You look like hell,” Erwin told him, blunt as always. “Come with me today? Put Tempelhoff in the back seat? Come to think of it, where is Tempelhoff?”

“Very well.” Pfirsich accepted the invitation, maybe it would prove the chance he had been waiting for to have a talk with his brother, and if not it might clear his head.

Erwin rushed round with his customary zeal, imparting enthusiasm as he went. Pfirsich had seen this before, Erwin seemed to have something intangible about him which made troops want to fight for him, made them willing to make sacrifices and undertake the dull but often dangerous work of laying mines and constructing gun emplacements. It worked even on Pfirsich.

It wasn’t until the afternoon when the Field Marshal decided to stop for a short rest that Pfirsich gained any inkling of his brother’s real feelings. They had drawn away from the others, Erwin had led the way up a steep rise and breathlessly Pfirsich had followed, the rest of the inevitable retinue straggling behind. At the top the Field Marshal turned to scan the sea through his field glasses. “I wish they would get on with it!” he said, irritably.

“They’re hurrying as fast as they can,” Pfirsich said breathlessly as he watched the other men, flailing up the hill behind them.

“Not them, Pfirsich! The British!”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re hanging around on the south coast deciding whether or not to invade. At least that’s what the boys in intelligence think they’re doing. Which means they might be having tea for all we know. One way or another this war has got to end soon, and we won’t win it, however many defences we build we’ll just slow them down. The Führer has to understand that.”

Pfirsich’s first thought was: Obergruppenführer Maisel would love to hear about this. “Erwin, I...” he started. He was sure, later, that had Erwin not interrupted him he would have told him everything. Rosen, Maisel, Willie, the camp, everything.

But the Field Marshal led the way down. “Come on, Pfirsich!” he called behind him when his brother hesitated.

 

Next day the Obergruppenführer sent for him, Pfirsich had guessed that he would. It was usual now for him to give his report kneeling, but he still made the guards push him down; to appear to kneel at that beast’s feet willingly was more than he could stomach.

Pfirsich noticed that the Obergruppenführer was holding a heavy whip in his hand. That did not bode well. “Take his jacket off,” The Obergruppenführer ordered. The guards did as they were told, leaving him in the desert issue thin cotton shirt and breeches. The spurs were an ever-present discomfort.

“How was Erwin?” The Obergruppenführer lifted Pfirsich’s face with his whip, making him turn it this way and that in the light.

“The Field Marshal is well.”

“Unlike you, I hear.” Pfirsich was puzzled and must have looked it. “I am told that you are ill and it seems your effectiveness may be compromised. Someone is concerned, though why he should be interested in scum like you I don’t know. What are you?”

“Scum, mein Herr.” This game of making Pfirsich insult himself could go on for some time.

“You’re sick all right, though not in the way that he means. Tell me, scum, who is Guillaume?”

“Mein Herr?”

“Oh, Pfirsich, what a butterfly you are! Don’t say that you’ve forgotten him. He swore undying love for you. He said you were ‘gold and cream,’ and a ‘perfect flower,’ he was very poetic about you, your Frenchman. So who is he?”

The letters. Now Pfirsich remembered, they had searched the house at Herrlingen. “He was a music teacher in Paris. He’s dead.”

“And this ‘Daniel’ that he was so jealous of?”

“He was a friend.” There really had been nothing more in it, but Guillaume liked to play the jealous lover.

“A Jew-boy who worked in a bank?”

“He worked in a bank.”

Suddenly the Obergruppenführer shouted. “He was a Jew!”

Thwack! The pain was a shock, the Obergruppenführer struck Pfirsich across the back and shoulders.

“I didn’t ask.” Pfirsich said. He shuddered, conscious of his own cowardice.

The Obergruppenführer shouted, “He was a Jew!”

“I don’t know, I didn’t ask!” Pfirsich cried out as he was struck again.

“Of course you do. You must have sucked his cock...”

“I didn’t! Ow!”

“Everyone knows what queers are like and even among them you’re a whore. You sucked him!”

“No!” The whip fell again.

“Or did your Jew-boy fuck you.” And again. “Did he, whore!”

“No!” The whip fell yet again.

“How many men have had you?”

Trying not to be unnerved Pfirsich thought quickly. “A few,” he said. “Not many.”

The whip was trailed down his face rather than striking another blow. “Who were they?” Pfirsich swallowed. “Come on, whore! Are there so many you can’t remember?”

“Rosen.” That one the Obergruppenführer would have worked out for himself. “Guillaume.” Then he ran out of names to which he dare admit. His language tutor still lived in Herrlingen, Pfirsich couldn’t expose him to danger. Hans Knoke, another from his home town, had been a mechanic; they’d had a physical relationship for a very short time when Pfirsich had been lonely and Hans curious. As far as Pfirsich knew he was still alive and in a tank regiment. The Obergruppenführer was looking at him expectantly.

Pfirsich dropped his eyes, he had an idea. “Daniel,” he admitted, very quietly. The Obergruppenführer looked triumphant, a look Pfirsich hated and despised. It was a complete lie, but Daniel had gone to America in 1937. “James Beamish,” James was a friend from his schooldays in England, blameless as far as Pfirsich knew, though he had wanted him quite badly at one stage. “And George Thomas.” George was another friend from school, Pfirsich was running out of time to think, and he had been with George once.

The whip trailed down Pfirsich’s face once again. “What is it about Englishmen that attracts you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Most of the men you’ve had - that you’re telling me about - English. Must be something. German men not good enough for you, whore? Or are they too pure to touch scum like you?”

At least while the Obergruppenführer was distracted by the banal details of his private life the subject of Erwin was unlikely to come up. Pfirsich desperately tried to think of an answer. “I like the crazy ones,” he said. It carried conviction because it was true.

“Explain.” The Obergruppenführer moved Pfirsich’s face with the whip again, looking at him.

Pfirsich flinched. He said. “There seem to be two sorts of English, the men anyway. The slow, understated, complacent sort and the ones who will do anything because it’s there or because it’s funny.” He shrugged. “That’s the sort I like. The crazy ones.”

“You’re the crazy one.” The Obergruppenführer thought for a moment. “Now tell me about Erwin. What did you and he talk about?”

Pfirsich made something up. So began Pfirsich’s career as a liar rather than simply as one who omits relevant facts; he found it as well to leaven his lies with the truth, more truth than lies made the lies more believable.

Three weeks passed; Pfirsich immersed himself in the problems of supply, nearly as complex here as in the desert, if not yet as desperate. Everything he did seemed to take a long time, he felt that his mind moved slowly as if his head was filled with glue.

The door opened behind him and Barkhorn announced: “Oberstleutnant Graf Claus von Stauffenberg.”

“Hallo Pfirsich!” a familiar voice called out.

Pfirsich turned, “Claus!” He stopped, astonished. “Claus, I had no idea...”

“That the injuries were so bad? I know.” Claus smiled and once Pfirsich had recovered a little from the immediate shock, become more accustomed to the loss of his friend’s eye and arm he could see that it was the same Claus he had known almost since childhood.

“What are you doing here? Surely you aren’t on active service?”

“It depends what you call active. I’m with the General Staff at OKH,and I’m here in response to the letters you have been sending,” Claus lit a cigarette with one hand - an impressive feat considering he only had three remaining fingers.

“Oh, those letters.”

“Yes, those letters. The ones begging for supplies we don’t have. They end up on my desk, but I didn’t realise it was you until a week ago. Dismissed, Obergefrieter.” Claus said, rather peremptorily, and to Pfirsich’s relief. Barkhorn had taken to hanging about when not wanted. “Well, how are you?” Claus went on, “I certainly feel better than you look.”

Pfirsich looked away, “There’s no need to be rude.”

“I’m sorry. There’s something wrong, isn’t there?”

Indeed Claus had not changed, the same incisive mind. “Yes,” said Pfirsich rather baldly.

“Everyone else cries on my shoulder, even Generals.”

“I’m not ‘everyone else’”

“No, I know.”

Pfirsich sighed. Why was he doing this? He had longed for an old friend to confide in, and now he had one he was pushing him away.

“How’s Erwin?” von Stauffenberg wandered over to look out of the window.

“He seems all right.” Pfirsich was rather doubtful, he so rarely spoke to Erwin these days. He didn’t dare - nor did he dare stay too far away.

“Still doing his job the best way he can?”

“Of course.”

“Do you ever think it might be the very worst thing he could do?” Von Stauffenberg lit another cigarette.

Pfirsich sniffed, the smell brought memories, the cigarettes were French, the same sort as Rosen smoked. “What do you mean?” Pfirsich asked.

“It should be obvious. Germany cannot win a war fought on two fronts, as soon as that starts she is defeated. That is if she isn’t already.”

“Claus?”

“I deal with supply to the Eastern Front, principally. The Führer,” and there was no mistaking Claus’ tone of disgust, “may think that the Slavs are Untermenchen but they fight like demons and they do not give up. What we should do is recruit them.”

“Interesting idea.” At least it distracted Pfirsich from his own miseries. “With some help it might prove possible to defeat the rest of the Russians. But that couldn’t happen if we were fighting a war on two fronts, the men would still be too thinly spread...”

“And the Führer has said that no-one will make peace with him.”

“So I understand.” Pfirsich had heard Erwin mention as much.

“I knew I wouldn’t have to explain too much to you...” Claus sounded triumphant.

“You haven’t yet explained anything.” Pfirsich was a little impatient, then something clicked in his mind. “Unless...Claus! Claus, that’s treason!”

Claus turned away from the window. “Yes it is. Pfirsich, you’re so strait-laced!”

“You don’t know me all that well. You’re planning...what? Tyrannicide? To kill Hitler?”

“Yes.”

“Why have you come to tell me about it?” Pfirsich was rather puzzled.

“When it happens we’ll need a network of officers we can rely on to move immediately. You have heard of ‘Operation Valkyrie’?”

“Yes, in outline. It’s a plan to secure the Reich in the case of a revolt.”

“We will call a start to ‘Operation Valkyrie’ and those we can rely on must be ready to take control.” Stauffenberg’s eyes gleamed with enthusiasm.

“I understand. But I am by no means the most senior officer here. Erwin...” he stopped. “You have approached Erwin.?”

“Yes. He is not enthusiastic.”

“No, he wouldn’t be.” Erwin, as Pfirsich knew, believed the oath he had sworn to the Führer bound him, even as he chafed under it.

“However General von Stülpnagel is.”

“General...” Shock upon shock, Stülpnagel was the commander in chief of all the forces in France. “And Field Marshal von Rundstedt?”

“Approves in outline but is waiting to see which way the cat will jump.”

“I see.”

“Pfirsich, how can you be so cold?” Von Stauffenberg sounded surprised, amused.

“I don’t know. You said I’m strait-laced, now you say I’m cold.”

“And you say I don’t know you very well.”

“Yes.” Pfirsich stood up, then looked round, irresolute. “I wonder how much you know about me, how much does anyone? What do I appear to be to other people?”

Von Stauffenberg stared. “Existentialism has never occurred to me to be quite your style.”

“No, I suppose not. Claus...” he took a deep breath. “I’m being blackmailed by an Obergruppenführer called Maisel.”

“You don’t believe in sparing people shock, do you?”

Pfirsich gave him the ghost of a smile. “No. Better that you should know.”

“Yes, I see that,” von Stauffenberg smiled back.

“You aren’t going to ask if I’ll tell him?”

“Oh, Pfirsich! I know you better than that!”

“Do you? Don’t you want to know why he’s got his claws into me?” Pfirsich was embarrassed, despite himself.

“You’re a...” he paused. “I wish there was a word to describe you that didn’t sound like an insult. Homosexual?”

Pfirsich sighed again, “I’m just a human being.”

“Who sleeps with men.”

“Claus!”

“One man?” Von Stauffenberg smiled again, “I supposed I’m not allowed to ask who?”

“I don’t think you know him, Rosen Kavalier, Luftwaffe. Well, you told me about your plot against the Führer.”

“Interesting choice.”

“I didn’t choose him, he chose me. I really didn’t know you knew him.” Pfirsich was looking down at the pretty garden of the chateau but he saw only Rosen’s face.

“We’ve met. I’m surprised...”

“That he appeals to me?” Pfirsich fiddled with the window catch, noticing idly that it needed mending.

“That you appeal to him.”

“I’m not what I appear to be. I told you that.” Pfirsich looked round to find that von Stauffenberg had taken his seat. He said, “You want to know if I will support your plot? If I can be relied upon to help you?”

“Of course.” Von Stauffenberg crossed his legs.

“Then yes. Yes I’ll support you.”

“You know what it might mean?”

Pfirsich shrugged. “Getting rid of those who stand in the way? Very well. One of them won’t be Erwin, not if I know my brother. And anything which serves to stop the SS has to be a good thing.”

“You say that with feeling.”

“You know of the Konzentrationslager?” Pfirsich shuddered. “And the way they are run?”

“Some.”

“Well, I’ve seen one. There’s one at Laon, and I know there are more.”

“Pfirsich...”

“It wouldn’t be so bad if they were holding death over him, but that! I can’t live with it, even if I supported the Führer or the blackbacks - which I don’t - I couldn’t live with that. And as for my oath, doesn’t the Führer have a responsibility to the German people? Don’t I? How will Germany live with this, Claus?”

“I don’t know. I thought I tortured myself with moral questions.” Von Stauffenberg seemed taken aback by Pfirsich’s vehemence.

“I’ve had a lot of practise.”

“I can imagine.” Von Stauffenberg paused. “What will you tell this SS man?”

“That you came to see me about supply. What else can I tell him? It’s true in any case.”

“And Kavalier?”

“Dare I put him in this kind of danger?”

Von Stauffenberg said, “He’s used to danger.”

“That he chose for himself. This is different.” Pfirsich paused. “You know that if I don’t tell Obergruppenführer Maisel and he finds out I’m signing my own death warrant?”

“Yes, and that of your...er...what shall I call him...?”

“Rosen. Just call him Rosen.” Pfirsich sighed, he’d often exercised his mind on the same problem.

“But you won’t tell, will you?” von Stauffenberg lit another cigarette.

“No, I won’t tell. Not this. But that bastard is having me spy on everyone here, if I stop he’ll have Rosen killed.”

“Pfirsich, I’m sorry,” said von Stauffenberg.

“I know. So am I.”

 

Obergruppenführer Maisel had not entirely believed him, though Pfirsich wasn’t quite sure why. As a result ten days later he was handed a picture of Willie, badly bruised, being thrown through a door. Pfirsich stuck resolutely to his story despite the photograph, it was obvious to him that since the damage had been done there was nothing to be gained from changing it.

However as a final insult the Obergruppenführer added: “He has been told that you ordered this.”

“I?”

“He says you are a Nazi.”

That an old friend might believe that he would issue such an order brought cold misery to Pfirsich’s soul. The Obergruppenführer went on, “But of course the party would never let your sort in.”

“Ernst Röhm," said Pfirsich.

Maisel lashed out and Pfirsich hit the floor, stunned.

 

Many times over the next few weeks Pfirsich wished he had asked von Stauffenberg to contact Rosen. Having blotted his copybook once, things were made much more difficult for him, his words were checked and double checked and he hardly dared be alone with Erwin for more than a minute. Any longer and he faced a beating next time he was invited to ‘dinner’, having to repeat over and over what he had said to his brother, right down to the inflections used. Each time it happened he thought: better me than Willie, better me than Rosen.

Worse, rather than just allowing him to report on what he had seen or heard he was now expected to find information for the Obergruppenführer, and woes betide Pfirsich if he failed to get what was wanted. Twice more he was shown pictures of Willie, he looked paler than ever, sick and frightened.

Gleefully the Obergruppenführer informed him that the senior British officer in the camp had lodged the strongest possible protest over Willie’s treatment with the Commandant, only to be told that this had been ordered by Oberst Rommel and that there was nothing the Commandant could do. However, so far Rosen remained unaffected.

 

“Except they wouldn’t let me off the camp,” put in Melvin. “I couldn’t understand what was happening. Everyone else had their leave passes approved, but every time I put one in the Oberst told me to wait while it was checked, then it was refused. At first I’d sneak out anyway, but they were on the watch for that.” He sighed. “Then finally they let me have a pass and we met.”

“In Rouen.” Pfirsich said, softly.

“Yes. You were strange.”

“The Obergruppenführer made me steal Erwin’s private journal. I was very reluctant. My ‘reward’ was to be allowed to see you.”

“And you didn’t tell me! Pfirsich, why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t dare. The Obergruppenführer said that if I so much as hinted to you what was happening, you would be taken away and I would be shot. I couldn’t even pass you a note. And I was afraid that if I told you what I had been doing you would hate me for it.”

“With my criminal past?” Melvin laughed, shortly. “Give me some credit! He had you so scared you weren’t thinking straight.”

“They followed us all the time we were there.”

“No wonder you were so strange.” Then something occurred to him. “Even when we...”

Pfirsich looked away. “Yes.”

“Gott!’ Melvin paused. “I thought you didn’t want me any more, that you didn’t love me. All that day I kept thinking, ‘he’s going to finish it’. Then just when I was going to ask you to get it over with, to put me out of my misery you...” he stopped again.

“I grabbed you and asked you to make love to me. I thought it might our last chance.”

“Ha! You begged me to fuck you senseless!”

“It’s not funny! Melvin!”

“But Pfirsich, it is! Just think, this SS Obergruppenführer watching us screw! Must have been an eyeful for him.”

“He never forgot it.”

“I bet,” grinned Melvin.

“He was always criticising your technique.”

“What ‘technique’? I jumped you.”

Pfirsich was embarrassed. “I did tell him you were not usually that violent. I don’t think he believed me.”

“Where were they? Were they close enough to hear?”

“Yes, they heard,” admitted Pfirsich, “or I would have told you then. He was surprised by how much you kissed me.”

“Don’t change the subject. What did I call you?”

“Oh...the usual: darling, sweetheart.”

“And?” Melvin pushed still further.

“Apparently we swear at each other.”

“We do?” Melvin looked blank.

“I swear in French, you in English. You called me a ‘cunt’. Twice. I had to tell him what it meant.”

“I’m surprised you know what a cunt is.”

“I don’t.”

“Jesus! Pfirsich, you’re so prim. So what did you tell the Obergruppenführer?”

“That it was English swearing for arse.”

“Right general area. Wrong gender. It’s a very rude word for a woman’s sex.”

“You call me that in bed! Melvin!”

“I don’t remember doing it.” Melvin asked, “Are you always like that when you’re being watched?”

“Like what?”

“Wild, abandoned. You let me do things that day, I didn’t know existed...”

Before Pfirsich could answer they heard Colonel Fraser’s voice, “Will you two Jerries shut up!”

Very quietly Melvin said, “And you haven’t even told me yet why you sent me to the camp.”

“I didn’t send you to the camp!”

Melvin asked, “Do you want to know about me at all?” His tone was ironic, sneering, as if Pfirsich might not, as if he hadn’t heard Pfirsich’s protest.

“Of course.” Pfirsich was hurt.

“We met in Rouen. You let me fuck you.” Meditatively, Melvin said, “Someone once lent me a book and I even read it. It was a story about some people living in a big house on a moor, and a man who picks up a child in the street and brings him home. I thought it was really stupid until the part where the heroine dies and the hero digs her up so he can see her again. I read it after I met you and I thought: I know how that man felt.”

“Rosen? This isn’t like you...”

“It is. It’s the part of me I’m afraid to have you see. All the time we are together I watch you constantly. I know you, Pfirsich. I know you better than you know yourself.”

“‘He’s more myself than I am...’” quoted Pfirsich.

“What?”

“The heroine of your book, she says it quite early on in the story, just before she marries someone else. The tragedy is that the hero never hears her say it because he’s left the room.”

“Oh.” Melvin didn’t sound interested. “Anyway, in Rouen I didn’t like how you were. You were not what I knew you to be. I thought I had seen you in every mood possible, in pain, ill, even frightened, but I had never seen you like that and I didn’t like it. The war had never meant that much to me, and it was obvious that very soon we were going to run out of either planes or fuel or both. With nothing else to do I started to ask questions, mostly about you. I didn’t get far. I was on my way to Laon when I was picked up by the Gefepo. They had an order - signed by you - sending me to the Konzentrationslager at Flossenberg. From there I was moved to the one you found me in.”

“I didn’t sign any order to send you anywhere.” Pfirsich sounded ferocious.

“Didn’t you? Not even under duress?”

“No! I would rather have died.”

Fraser’s voice rang out: “I told you two Krauts to shut up! Now keep fucking quiet!”

“I think I believe you. I’d like to believe you,” Melvin said. But he didn’t sound certain.

 

Even before breakfast next day, the prisoners, led by Winzig, asked to see Pfirsich. Him or no-one, they would not speak to any of the other interpreters. They had been told appalling things about the Allies treatment of prisoners and wanted reassurances that no evil would be done to them. Closer questioning elicited that these rumours had been principally put about concerning the Russians. Pfirsich had also heard frightening tales of the treatment of prisoners by the Russians. He pointed out that their captors were British, the Russians were nowhere near, and kept his thumbs pressed that they never would be.

If there was anything that loosened tongues on the prisoners it was sight of Melvin, learning what had happened to him. Melvin himself found the effort of questioning anyone totally exhausting. Pfirsich saw the Medical Officer watching them, and then later deep in conversation with Colonel Fraser. As a result he was relieved to see Melvin taken off these duties, he was to be asked to help only when they needed to talk to a particularly stubborn officer.

Melvin was already looking better, every day seemed to bring some improvement, physically at least, but it was some days before he asked Pfirsich to go on with the story.

Dinner, when Erwin was at La Roche Guyon, was an experience Pfirsich would have preferred to avoid. Unfortunately his position as spy meant that not attending was out of the question. After all, someone might have a little too much wine and let something slip.

Pfirsich sat as far away from Erwin as he dared, but he didn’t miss the sharp look his brother gave him as he took his place. “Not going out tonight, Pfirsich?”

“No,” replied Pfirsich. Perhaps Erwin hadn’t meant his question to seem as barbed as it felt.

He was utterly isolated and miserable at La Roche Guyon. Spring weather made the place prettier than ever, Laon even more so provided the wind wasn’t blowing in the wrong direction. Pfirsich hated them both he felt sometimes that he knew every rock and stone in between the two, he had made the journey so often.

He heard little of von Stauffenberg and the assassination plan, but that was safest anyway. Too much contact would only draw attention to them.


	2. Chapter 2

The Obergruppenführer sent for him. Pfirsich could see at once that he was angry, he was pacing up and down and slapping the heavy whip against his hand. “I have a picture for you,” the Obergruppenführer said.

“Thank you gracious Herr Obergruppenführer.” Pfirsich took it, hands cold as ice. It was Rosen. Dressed in the striped Konzentrationslager uniform he was moving soil from one side of a parade ground to another with his bare hands. It was raining, and he looked uncharacteristically frightened. The triangle on his uniform was either pink or red, the black and white photograph made it impossible to tell, but Pfirsich could guess.

“He is not in France, not one of my prisoners, more’s the pity. But you, scum, know where my camp is.” The Obergruppenführer smiled down at Pfirsich, “Oh, don’t worry. That doesn’t mean I can’t get hold of him if I need to.”

“But why, Herr Obergruppenführer? I am co-operating...”

“You’re unreliable, I need to keep him closer.” The Obergruppenführer changed the subject abruptly. “Your brother, dear Erwin, wants to see the Führer. I see that you know about this.”

“Only since this morning when the news came through that the Führer was considering his request.”

“Liar!” The whip fell across his back, the Obergruppenführer was always very careful not to mark his face or hands. “He must have told you!”

“He didn’t! I swear it!”

“What will he say to the Führer?”

“I do not know! Ow! He does not confide in me, I am just his sissy brother.” Pfirsich had heard Hanstoffer, his brother’s aide, call him this.

Over the next few days and weeks Maisel sent for Pfirsich frequently. The second photograph showed Rosen being beaten with truncheons; in the third, two weeks, later Rosen was strung up by the wrists. The fourth, which almost made Pfirsich sick, showed Rosen being burned with some sort of needle, his look of terror and pain was excruciating. Pfirsich didn’t know what to do. He realised that whatever he said or agreed to would make little difference to these sadists, they would likely hurt Rosen for pleasure anyway.

Handing him the fifth picture the Obergruppenführer said: “Has the Führer agreed to see Erwin yet?”

“Nein, mein Herr. The Herr Field Marshal hopes that he will soon.” In this picture Rosen was being beaten with what looked like a horsewhip.

“Is your brother falling into his ‘Afrikanische Krankheit’?”

“I don’t understand, mein Herr.”

“During the campaign in Africa the Führer believed that Erwin was falling into pessimism, he called it his ‘Afrikanische Krankheit’. Is that happening again?”

“I don’t think so, mein Herr.”

“Good. The Führer despises pessimists. He believes Germany will win this war even now. I see you don’t think so.” The Obergruppenführer wrenched Pfirsich up to face into the light. “Where have you got this idea from, queer? Your brother?”

“Nein, mein Herr!”

“You know, queer scum, I don’t think you’re behaving very well. Even with your Rosen a prisoner you’re slow. It could be because you’re queer and queers are lazy and stupid, but I don’t think so. From what’s said about you you’re too good an officer to be that stupid. Think on this: if you carry on this way not only will your lovely Rosen suffer for it,” he took the picture out of Pfirsich’s frozen fingers and threw it on the table, “our divine Führer will have his suspicion confirmed that his Field Marshal and former favourite is falling into the pessimistic state he so despises. Do you understand?”

Pfirsich was horrified, he didn’t answer immediately and the Obergruppenführer landed a blow on his buttocks. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, mein Herr,” said Pfirsich quietly. He was quite certain now that it was the plot to kill Hitler they were really concerned about, and fought to keep any hint of it from his reports. He knew that it could not be long delayed and prayed for a success that would release everyone from their torments.

But spring became summer and nothing happened. Hitler lived on, Erwin built defences and Rosen suffered. Of Willie in his distant prison, Pfirsich heard nothing, a silence that was unsettling. Pfirsich had to do something, anything, to stop all this.

6 June 1944. Pfirsich woke very early, his bedside clock showed 6.25am. He had heard someone creep past his room going downstairs, he was sure of it. He opened his door. To his surprise it was Erwin. Then he remembered. Today was Lucie’s birthday, he had bought her something himself a few days before, it was on his dressing table wrapped up neatly. He picked it up and followed his brother.

Erwin was arranging Lucie’s other presents on the dining room table when he walked in. Pfirsich added his. They had not been alone together in several weeks and suddenly Pfirsich could not think what to say, where to start. Should he announce, baldly, on Lucie’s birthday of all days, that he was being blackmailed by an SS Obergruppenführer? Should he tell Erwin that he was in danger from his own side?

Erwin looked Pfirsich up and down. “That dressing gown...it’s so...pink.”

“It’s not pink, Erwin, it’s peach!” He stopped. As if that mattered. “Erwin you know Obergruppenführer Maisel, he...”

The telephone rang. “Just a minute, Pfirsich.” Erwin answered it. “Speidel? Yes...yes. Where? How many?”

As soon as his brother put the receiver down Pfirsich said, “Erwin, I...”

“Not now, Pfirsich. The British have invaded,” and the Field Marshal was off, calling for his staff officers.

Pfirsich sat down at the table decorated with Lucie’s presents. Oh God, he thought. Damn the British, they’re too late!

 

Everyone was very busy, including Pfirsich. He could not report to the Obergruppenführer nearly as often, and Pfirsich had little time to think about poor Rosen’s sufferings. Not that Rosen suffered any less, just that he heard less about it, and had no time to think.

Of course the Field Marshal was back in his element, to him his proper place was at the head of his troops, not sitting about at HQ making plans. He swept out of La Roche Guyon leaving Pfirsich handling supply and co-ordination.

Pfirsich sighed, his desk was covered in papers, most of which made little sense. He shuffled the papers into slightly different piles in the hope that this would make a difference, give the illusion that he was working and that he knew what he was doing. He realised, dully, that Erwin was no longer confiding in him. In Africa Pfirsich had been unable to do his job properly because the supplies had not been available. He had more supplies here than had been the case in Africa, but he had no idea of his brother’s intentions, and, he thought with frustration, no supply officer could cope with ignorance of his commander’s plans. He had to rely on his knowledge of warfare, his intuition and the plans received from the Führer.

Pfirsich was on the telephone to a supply depot near Rouen when Hanstoffer, his brother’s aide, came in waving papers. The phone had long since gone silent and he put the receiver down.

“Hello sissy!” greeted Hanstoffer, brightly.

“Hello,” replied Pfirsich, glumly. He didn’t much care for the greeting but at least Hanstoffer was cheerful, and that was rare enough. And he reminded Pfirsich that there was a life outside La Roche Guyon. “More orders from the Führer?”

“You guessed it, sissy. Has the Field Marshal sent his report in?”

“I...yes I believe so.” Pfirsich felt himself blush. He had been in his brother’s office - Erwin wasn’t there, he was inspecting gun emplacements - when he had found the report Erwin had written yesterday. He’d put it aside, looking for a copy of a requisition for petrol, when he’d found a second report, also dated for yesterday. Puzzled he compared the two. They contradicted each other in several important particulars and Pfirsich had wondered which Erwin had sent, what was the true position. After a second he realised his brother had submitted both, a habit he’d had in Africa. Oh. He’d sat down suddenly. And now he’d had a chance to look, he’d realised these reports were vague as well as mutually contradictory.

“Still with us?” asked Hanstoffer, as if concerned.

“Yes. I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

“Have you heard the latest joke?” He glanced round in what was becoming the ‘German look’ and lowered his voice. “This one carries two years.”

“Probably not,” few people joked with Pfirsich, only Hanstoffer and from things that Obergruppenführer Maisel had said, Pfirsich was sure Hanstoffer was one of Maisel’s spies.

“Well, it’s been said,” remarked Hanstoffer, in a voice full of mystery, “that Generals have been told so often that they should hold every inch that they are afraid to move the sentries from the door to the window in case it’s interpreted as a withdrawal!”

Pfirsich laughed, in spite of himself.

Hanstoffer grinned, “‘S a fact!”

 

Obergruppenführer Maisel came to the town nearest La Roche Guyon and Pfirsich went to him with a heavy heart. How would he explain Erwin’s actions now?

Pfirsich could see that immediately that the Obergruppenführer was in a foul mood. He was made to kneel as always, the bruises caused by his spurs seemed permanent, and he watched as the Obergruppenführer paced back and forth. “What did Erwin mean by it?” the Obergruppenführer demanded.

Pfirsich watched the whip, apprehensively. “Herr Obergruppenführer?”

“First he says one thing, then another and neither are true. He conceals his true intentions...”

Conceals them from me, too, thought Pfirsich, dismally. He never used to.

“You know what they are,” accused the Obergruppenführer.

“Nein, mein Herr.”

“I don’t believe you; if anyone can guess it should be you. You have served with him the longest, he’s always kept his queer brother away from anyone else. So tell me, what does he intend to do?”

“I don’t know, mein Herr. He has always been unpredictable. And even if I knew what his plans were he has always said that ‘no plan survives contact with the enemy’!” That was a mistake, the Obergruppenführer hit Pfirsich harder than ever before. Pfirsich gritted his teeth under the onslaught, he knew speaking out like that carried risks and he still did it. Then he remembered with a tinge of regret that his sufferings would be shared by Rosen. He wished, absurdly, that they could suffer together, as if that would help.

“Why don’t you scream?” The Obergruppenführer shouted.

“Would that make a difference?” From experience he knew that once he lost his temper the pain was not nearly as bad. “You hit me because you enjoy it!”

The guards threw Pfirsich to the floor and the Obergruppenführer kicked him in the ribs. Pfirsich saw stars for a moment then felt himself being hauled upright, the Obergruppenführer pulled his face up to hold it in a tight and painful grip. Looking at he contorted features Pfirsich wondered if the Obergruppenführer was mad, and for an absurd moment he imagined he intended a kiss. Suddenly the Obergruppenführer let go. He said: “Lick my boots!”

Pfirsich looked up, half in disbelief, “What?” He saw, not for the first time though it had never been so obvious before, that the man had an erection. He hoped that the Obergruppenführer hadn’t seen him looking, he didn’t like to imagine what that foreboded.

“Do it!” The order was reinforced with a sharp slap. “Lick them!”

The logical, intelligent part of Pfirsich’s mind, the part that never seemed to leave him no matter what was happening, noted that boot polish tasted utterly repulsive. It refused - he refused - to acknowledge the symbolism of this act. It went on for a long time, he had enough time to note that the boots were undoubtedly handmade, the stitching was unmistakable, and there were marks where Maisel wore spurs. He hadn’t known that Maisel rode, for a moment he was ill with envy and homesickness. At last he was allowed to stop.

The Obergruppenführer looked down on him as he lay on the floor. He said: “Now, shit, tell me where your brother is!”

“You know where he is, he has gone to see the Führer.”

“You knew he was going. You know what he is going to say?”

“Yes I knew he was going and so did you. I don’t know what he is going to say, he told me nothing.”

“Your outspokenness is beginning to irritate me, queer scum. Remember where your beloved Rosen is - or do you call him Melvin? Come on shitheap, tell me.”

“Usually it is Rosen. He does not like the name Melvin.”

“It doesn’t surprise me. If my name was Melvin Ramsbottom I’d call myself something else as well. Scum, do you know what dear brother Erwin has said to the Führer?”

“Nein, mein Herr.” He knew all along, Pfirsich thought. So why is he asking me?

“You are so stupid, queer, it was a rhetorical question. You are so stupid that if you were my dog I’d give you poison.”

“If I were your dog, Herr Obergruppenführer, I’d eat it. Ow!”

This time Pfirsich had to be given water before the Obergruppenführer could continue with his harangue. “Your brother has told the Führer that we are outgunned, out manned and that it is only a matter of time before we are overrun.”

Pfirsich choked on the water. Erwin had told Hitler this to his face?

The Obergruppenführer went on: “He told the Führer that his plans are outrageous, impossible. Why did you not tell me that he would say these things?”

“I didn’t know,” Pfirsich protested, weakly. But to stop Erwin making these trenchant criticisms of the Führer was the reason that Pfirsich had always accompanied his brother to Berlin; it was precisely the sort of thing Erwin always said he was going to say, then toned down when Pfirsich pointed out how dangerous it might prove.

“What did the Führer say?” Pfirsich wondered out loud.

“Nothing to do with you! The Führer’s words are not for queers and cowards!” The Obergruppenführer aimed a kick at Pfirsich’s bad hip. Pfirsich passed out.

Three days later Obergruppenführer Maisel called Pfirsich back to Laon. He handed Pfirsich a photograph, it was Willie Taliaferro. He had a bullet hole in the temple and was quite dead. Resting on the body was a copy of Paris-Match. Pfirsich was violently sick.

6 June 1944. Pfirsich woke very early, his bedside clock showed 6.25am. He had heard someone creep past his room going downstairs, he was sure of it. He opened his door. To his surprise it was Erwin. Then he remembered. Today was Lucie’s birthday, he had bought her something himself a few days before, it was on his dressing table wrapped up neatly. He picked it up and followed his brother.

Erwin was arranging Lucie’s other presents on the dining room table when he walked in. Pfirsich added his. They had not been alone together in several weeks and suddenly Pfirsich could not think what to say, where to start. Should he announce, baldly, on Lucie’s birthday of all days, that he was being blackmailed by an SS Obergruppenführer? Should he tell Erwin that he was in danger from his own side?

Erwin looked Pfirsich up and down. “That dressing gown...it’s so...pink.”

“It’s not pink, Erwin, it’s peach!” He stopped. As if that mattered. “Erwin you know Obergruppenführer Maisel, he...”

The telephone rang. “Just a minute, Pfirsich.” Erwin answered it. “Speidel? Yes...yes. Where? How many?”

As soon as his brother put the receiver down Pfirsich said, “Erwin, I...”

“Not now, Pfirsich. The British have invaded,” and the Field Marshal was off, calling for his staff officers.

Pfirsich sat down at the table decorated with Lucie’s presents. Oh God, he thought. Damn the British, they’re too late!

 

Everyone was very busy, including Pfirsich. He could not report to the Obergruppenführer nearly as often, and Pfirsich had little time to think about poor Rosen’s sufferings. Not that Rosen suffered any less, just that he heard less about it, and had no time to think.

Of course the Field Marshal was back in his element, to him his proper place was at the head of his troops, not sitting about at HQ making plans. He swept out of La Roche Guyon leaving Pfirsich handling supply and co-ordination.

Pfirsich sighed, his desk was covered in papers, most of which made little sense. He shuffled the papers into slightly different piles in the hope that this would make a difference, give the illusion that he was working and that he knew what he was doing. He realised, dully, that Erwin was no longer confiding in him. In Africa Pfirsich had been unable to do his job properly because the supplies had not been available. He had more supplies here than had been the case in Africa, but he had no idea of his brother’s intentions, and, he thought with frustration, no supply officer could cope with ignorance of his commander’s plans. He had to rely on his knowledge of warfare, his intuition and the plans received from the Führer.

Pfirsich was on the telephone to a supply depot near Rouen when Hanstoffer, his brother’s aide, came in waving papers. The phone had long since gone silent and he put the receiver down.

“Hello sissy!” greeted Hanstoffer, brightly.

“Hello,” replied Pfirsich, glumly. He didn’t much care for the greeting but at least Hanstoffer was cheerful, and that was rare enough. And he reminded Pfirsich that there was a life outside La Roche Guyon. “More orders from the Führer?”

“You guessed it, sissy. Has the Field Marshal sent his report in?”

“I...yes I believe so.” Pfirsich felt himself blush. He had been in his brother’s office - Erwin wasn’t there, he was inspecting gun emplacements - when he had found the report Erwin had written yesterday. He’d put it aside, looking for a copy of a requisition for petrol, when he’d found a second report, also dated for yesterday. Puzzled he compared the two. They contradicted each other in several important particulars and Pfirsich had wondered which Erwin had sent, what was the true position. After a second he realised his brother had submitted both, a habit he’d had in Africa. Oh. He’d sat down suddenly. And now he’d had a chance to look, he’d realised these reports were vague as well as mutually contradictory.

“Still with us?” asked Hanstoffer, as if concerned.

“Yes. I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

“Have you heard the latest joke?” He glanced round in what was becoming the ‘German look’ and lowered his voice. “This one carries two years.”

“Probably not,” few people joked with Pfirsich, only Hanstoffer and from things that Obergruppenführer Maisel had said, Pfirsich was sure Hanstoffer was one of Maisel’s spies.

“Well, it’s been said,” remarked Hanstoffer, in a voice full of mystery, “that Generals have been told so often that they should hold every inch that they are afraid to move the sentries from the door to the window in case it’s interpreted as a withdrawal!”

Pfirsich laughed, in spite of himself.

Hanstoffer grinned, “‘S a fact!”

 

Obergruppenführer Maisel came to the town nearest La Roche Guyon and Pfirsich went to him with a heavy heart. How would he explain Erwin’s actions now?

Pfirsich could see that immediately that the Obergruppenführer was in a foul mood. He was made to kneel as always, the bruises caused by his spurs seemed permanent, and he watched as the Obergruppenführer paced back and forth. “What did Erwin mean by it?” the Obergruppenführer demanded.

Pfirsich watched the whip, apprehensively. “Herr Obergruppenführer?”

“First he says one thing, then another and neither are true. He conceals his true intentions...”

Conceals them from me, too, thought Pfirsich, dismally. He never used to.

“You know what they are,” accused the Obergruppenführer.

“Nein, mein Herr.”

“I don’t believe you; if anyone can guess it should be you. You have served with him the longest, he’s always kept his queer brother away from anyone else. So tell me, what does he intend to do?”

“I don’t know, mein Herr. He has always been unpredictable. And even if I knew what his plans were he has always said that ‘no plan survives contact with the enemy’!” That was a mistake, the Obergruppenführer hit Pfirsich harder than ever before. Pfirsich gritted his teeth under the onslaught, he knew speaking out like that carried risks and he still did it. Then he remembered with a tinge of regret that his sufferings would be shared by Rosen. He wished, absurdly, that they could suffer together, as if that would help.

“Why don’t you scream?” The Obergruppenführer shouted.

“Would that make a difference?” From experience he knew that once he lost his temper the pain was not nearly as bad. “You hit me because you enjoy it!”

The guards threw Pfirsich to the floor and the Obergruppenführer kicked him in the ribs. Pfirsich saw stars for a moment then felt himself being hauled upright, the Obergruppenführer pulled his face up to hold it in a tight and painful grip. Looking at he contorted features Pfirsich wondered if the Obergruppenführer was mad, and for an absurd moment he imagined he intended a kiss. Suddenly the Obergruppenführer let go. He said: “Lick my boots!”

Pfirsich looked up, half in disbelief, “What?” He saw, not for the first time though it had never been so obvious before, that the man had an erection. He hoped that the Obergruppenführer hadn’t seen him looking, he didn’t like to imagine what that foreboded.

“Do it!” The order was reinforced with a sharp slap. “Lick them!”

The logical, intelligent part of Pfirsich’s mind, the part that never seemed to leave him no matter what was happening, noted that boot polish tasted utterly repulsive. It refused - he refused - to acknowledge the symbolism of this act. It went on for a long time, he had enough time to note that the boots were undoubtedly handmade, the stitching was unmistakable, and there were marks where Maisel wore spurs. He hadn’t known that Maisel rode, for a moment he was ill with envy and homesickness. At last he was allowed to stop.

The Obergruppenführer looked down on him as he lay on the floor. He said: “Now, shit, tell me where your brother is!”

“You know where he is, he has gone to see the Führer.”

“You knew he was going. You know what he is going to say?”

“Yes I knew he was going and so did you. I don’t know what he is going to say, he told me nothing.”

“Your outspokenness is beginning to irritate me, queer scum. Remember where your beloved Rosen is - or do you call him Melvin? Come on shitheap, tell me.”

“Usually it is Rosen. He does not like the name Melvin.”

“It doesn’t surprise me. If my name was Melvin Ramsbottom I’d call myself something else as well. Scum, do you know what dear brother Erwin has said to the Führer?”

“Nein, mein Herr.” He knew all along, Pfirsich thought. So why is he asking me?

“You are so stupid, queer, it was a rhetorical question. You are so stupid that if you were my dog I’d give you poison.”

“If I were your dog, Herr Obergruppenführer, I’d eat it. Ow!”

This time Pfirsich had to be given water before the Obergruppenführer could continue with his harangue. “Your brother has told the Führer that we are outgunned, out manned and that it is only a matter of time before we are overrun.”

Pfirsich choked on the water. Erwin had told Hitler this to his face?

The Obergruppenführer went on: “He told the Führer that his plans are outrageous, impossible. Why did you not tell me that he would say these things?”

“I didn’t know,” Pfirsich protested, weakly. But to stop Erwin making these trenchant criticisms of the Führer was the reason that Pfirsich had always accompanied his brother to Berlin; it was precisely the sort of thing Erwin always said he was going to say, then toned down when Pfirsich pointed out how dangerous it might prove.

“What did the Führer say?” Pfirsich wondered out loud.

“Nothing to do with you! The Führer’s words are not for queers and cowards!” The Obergruppenführer aimed a kick at Pfirsich’s bad hip. Pfirsich passed out.

Three days later Obergruppenführer Maisel called Pfirsich back to Laon. He handed Pfirsich a photograph, it was Willie Taliaferro. He had a bullet hole in the temple and was quite dead. Resting on the body was a copy of Paris-Match. Pfirsich was violently sick.

Pfirsich saw the staff car drive up to the chateau, and saw Erwin get out. He could see that Erwin was in a towering rage even from his vantage point upstairs and at least thirty metres away. The dogs rushed out to meet Erwin, but uncharacteristically he ignored them. Pfirsich pitied the poor creatures, they had done nothing wrong, and he shuddered; had his brother been in this rage since seeing the Führer in Berlin? He returned to his desk and sat down feeling the bruises from his own spurs and the beating Maisel had given him. Resolutely he thrust self pity away.

There was no sign of Erwin when he went to lunch, in fact no sign of any of the senior staff officers, he and a Leutnant faced each other over the table. It was not unusual for junior officers to be silenced by him, a fact of life he merely accepted.

On the way back to his office he climbed the stairs and stopped at the top to get his breath back. His chest hurt when he exerted himself, probably a cracked rib, and his hip was a constant niggling pain. He knew he should see the Medical Officer, but he did not trust him, added to which the embarrassment of explaining how he came by such injuries forced him to endure the pain in silence.

The door under the stairs opened and closed and Pfirsich heard voices, one said: “The Field Marshal said that to Goebbels?”

“He’s a brave man,” said another, deeper. Neither voice was immediately familiar to Pfirsich.

“Brave but stupid. To tell Goebbels of all people, that he’s going to tell Hitler the unvarnished truth. Then does it! I knew he should have taken his brother with him.”

“Pfirsich? But he’s such a...pansy.”

“True. But he’s not stupid. The Field Marshal has the courage of three men, but the pansy brother has the sense.”

Upstairs Pfirsich wished he could see who the speaker was, but a door opened along the corridor and he had to go into his office or be seen watching. Pfirsich reflected that Erwin had always been a simple honest man; one who really believed that to tell the truth was the best way forward.

The conversation with the Field Marshal had been summed up by the Führer in a directive which, when Pfirsich read it next day, proved to be a document startling in it’s banality, falsity and sheer irrelevance. Some of the supplies it listed as coming to them, ‘special’ weapons, torpedo boats and submarines to operate in the Channel existed surely only in the Führer’s imagination.

 

Sometimes Pfirsich hated his brother, at times the feeling was so strong he could taste it. If Erwin was anything other than an honourable soldier Pfirsich wouldn’t be in this terrible position. If he himself was anything other than a damned queer - he seemed to have got the habit of insulting himself from the Obergruppenführer - he wouldn’t be in this position either, and he hated himself as much as he hated Erwin. Or more.

He had trouble sleeping, even when he had time to sleep. He looked up at the ceiling of his room in the chateau, knowing by now every nuance of the shadows, the way the lights from the other side of the door could play tricks with his eyes.

The room could play tricks with his mind, too. At times he could imagine that he was not alone, though he knew the door to be locked he could almost believe Obergruppenführer Maisel watched him even when he was unconscious. Knowing formless nightmares waited for him he went over his last meeting with Maisel. The Obergruppenführer wanted him to steal the original copies of the orders the Field Marshal had transmitted to the men fighting near Caen. Pfirsich was as usual unwilling, but with the nightmares near, he knew he had little alternative. And what had Erwin done for him? Precious little lately. Pfirsich always felt weaker at night.

He got out of bed, pulling on his dressing gown, the one Erwin had said was so pink. It was unmistakable, but if he was seen he could always say that there was something he’d forgotten to do. It happened often enough these days that no-one would question it.

The Chateau was never quiet, not even at night and for the first time Pfirsich could hear the big guns firing in the distance. It hardly sounded real, but he shivered.

Looking for the orders, he found a letter from Erwin to the previous High Commander of the German Armies in the west, Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt, dated some weeks before. He read it, astonished. He hadn’t realised his brother was a close friend of von Rundstedt’s, von Rundstedt had famously called Erwin, “the clown of Hitler’s little circus” and the things that Erwin had said about von Rundstedt, a Prussian officer of the old school, had been unrepeatable. At least in polite company. And yet here was Erwin, writing to the man in extremely cordial terms, commiserating with him on being replaced by Kluge as Commander in the West, and congratulating him on suggesting to a man called Keitel, whom Erwin called Hitler’s lickspittle assistant in Berlin, that Hitler be told to: “Make peace, you fool!” It appeared that von Rundstedt had also called Keitel a half-wit, to Erwin’s great pleasure and amusement.

Pfirsich sat down slowly. The letter was a bombshell. In Maisel’s hands it would...he could use it to make Maisel leave him alone. Couldn’t he? It provided Maisel with all the ammunition against Erwin that he could ever need, some of Erwin’s remarks about the Führer, while not being technically treasonous, could be presented as treasonous when taken out of context. What on Earth did Erwin think he was doing?

He heard a noise from the corridor, and putting the letter into his pocket along with the orders he slipped out in the wake of the guard change and went back to his own room.

Once there he took the letter out and smoothed it on his dressing table. With this letter he could hand Erwin over to Maisel, and perhaps be free of this business. Maybe Maisel would agree to free Rosen. Maybe.

For a few hopeful minutes he allowed himself a rosy vision of the future, before reality intruded once more. Maisel would never let him go free. If Pfirsich handed over the letter Maisel would have Pfirsich, Rosen and Erwin under his thumb. Erwin chafed enough under Hitler who was hundreds of miles away.

Pfirsich screwed the letter up and after searching in his dressing table drawer for a few moments he found the box of matches Rosen had left. He put the screwed up letter into the unused ashtray and set light to it. Pfirsich watched it burn, and for a few seconds after it was gone he painfully regretted the end of the chance to be free. He put the stolen orders away and emptied the ashtray into the bin. For once his sleep was unbroken, the nightmares didn’t come.

 

Pfirsich saw Erwin throw himself into work, visiting, cheering, correcting errors and proposing improvements as assiduously as ever. To do less would be to betray his men and Pfirsich knew that to Erwin that would be unthinkable. The men were suffering even so and he could see that Erwin suffered for them. Even the smallest enemy attack seemed to be preceded by saturation bombardment, which cut the men’s morale to shreds. Added to which 100,000 German troops had been killed or injured since 6 June, but although British and Canadian losses numbered three times that, they kept on coming, with the Americans yet to make any significant moves.

Pfirsich didn’t know what his brother was planning. Von Tempelhoff had been posted as being AWOL, though why such a senior officer should just disappear without warning was unexplained. Whatever the reason, Erwin seemed hampered by the continued absence of his 1a, who had for so long been his right hand.

 

On the 17th of July Obergruppenführer Maisel sent for Pfirsich. He went, but with miserable reluctance; he was sure Barkhorn would have reported the matter of the burned letter. Once Pfirsich was kneeling the Obergruppenführer demanded: “I need to see that ultimatum!”

“What ultimatum? I can’t help you,” Pfirsich replied, quietly, though he was relieved. It was clear that the Obergruppenführer knew more of Erwin’s plans than Pfirsich did. “He tells me nothing. Not anymore.”

“Well, ask him!”

“Yes, Herr Obergruppenführer.” Though what Erwin would say when his brother asked him about something he so obviously wanted to keep secret he didn’t like to think.

 

On his return to La Roche Guyon, Pfirsich made his way at once to Erwin’s office. He felt that if he didn’t go immediately his nerve would desert him. Erwin was reading, the papers looked like the usual over-detailed orders from Berlin, but he looked up when Pfirsich came in.

“May I see you, Erwin?”

“What is it, Pfirsich?” Erwin sounded tired, unhappy. “Can’t it wait?”

“I suppose so,” he said, reluctantly. “Tomorrow?” Pfirsich wasn’t due to see Maisel for another couple of days, and his brother sounded exhausted.

“I’m due to go and see those two blackback Panzer Generals, Bittrich and Dietrich, I have to leave any minute. Even the SS units are depleted and still,” Erwin hit the orders for emphasis, “the Führer demands that we defend every inch. I have told him the whole world stands against us, but will he listen? No. And where is the Luftwaffe? Inadequate, utterly inadequate. Then he practically throws me out! Me!” Erwin sighed. “That I should live to see this! What chance has Germany now?”

“Erwin...” Pfirsich thought perhaps he should speak now, after all.

There was a knock at the door and Erwin called, “Come!”

It was Hanstoffer, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He stopped when he saw Pfirsich. “Heil Hitler! I’m sorry to disturb you Herr Generalfeldmarschall, I could come back?”

“No need. Na, Pfirsich I’ll talk to you tomorrow, when I get back. Danke, Hanstoffer.”

Erwin was late in returning but Pfirsich was only mildly concerned, his brother often had trouble dodging British patrols and aircraft. There was a single knock at his office door and Hanstoffer almost fell in. “Heil Hitler! Herr Oberst...”

“Heil Hitler,” Pfirsich said with his usual reluctance. “Yes?”

“The Herr Generalfeldmarschall...”

A terrible fear gripped him. “What’s happened?”

“He’s been hurt, badly. He’s at the hospital at Livarot.”

“Is there a car available?”

“Ja, Herr Oberst. A staff car and driver.”

Erwin looked appalling. His head was bandaged, there were wounds to his face and he looked very pale even against the white hospital sheets. “What happened?” Pfirsich whispered.

“He has a fractured skull,” said the doctor, in French. Never was Pfirsich so glad he had learned the language. “The wounds to the face and temple are ugly but superficial, however we don’t know the extent of the rest of the damage. I’m sorry, Monsieur.”

“And the others in the car?”

“The driver is dead.”

“Oh, no!” Pfirsich had known Obergefrieter Daniel. A good man.

“The other officers with him are injured. Major Neuhaus is still under sedation but you can speak to Hauptmann Lang.”

The Captain was bandaged about the arms and head, he looked tired but alert, and greeted him readily enough. “Herr Oberst Rommel!”

“Lang, dear! What happened?”

“We were heading back towards HQ when we saw Typhoons overhead. We stayed on the back roads under the trees, but eventually we had to turn onto a main road. Then one of the bastards saw his chance, he came within yards of us, yards Herr Oberst, and opened up with both cannon. The swine! The first shots killed poor Daniel,” he trailed off, then started again. “He lost control of the car, which turned over into a ditch. Then the other bastards strafed us! As if we were any threat to them! And the Herr Field Marshal has always said the British were an honourable enemy!”

“There’s no honour in war, Hauptmann. Not really.”

As the Field Marshal’s brother and not - on paper anyway - the holder of any particularly high rank or important job he was given compassionate leave immediately. Lucie would need help getting the house ready for Erwin’s return, as soon as he was well enough. He heard that Erwin was to be moved to a military hospital near Rouen, and on his way home to Herrlingen he stopped to visit his brother.

Erwin looked very unwell, he was pale, and still looked tired. He was awake, just, but the nurses would not let him exert himself or talk, not that Pfirsich would have dreamed of worrying him in his current state. Pfirsich could only squeeze his brother’s hand and was rewarded with a squeeze in return.

The journey home to Herrlingen was exhausting, long waits while transports of men to the front took priority being the most minor of his problems. The British bombed goods yards and railway marshalling yards as a matter of course and trains were endlessly diverted or held up by raids. It took nearly a day to cross the border into Germany and he cursed the war and everything to do with it.

At Säabrucken he waited for over five hours on the freezing station for a train which when it arrived looked to be carrying half of Germany. He had not been home since being assigned to Erwin’s staff in France and to his amazement the current fashion among German mothers seemed to be to dress children in tartan, a pattern of bright red, green and yellow being a particular favourite. He - very vaguely - had an idea that it was the Royal Stewart.

He had ample time to observe this, his rank was enough to get him a seat and opposite him on the train sat a worried-looking young woman with the Mother’s Medal and three phlegmatic-looking young girls, the eldest around six, all in the ubiquitous tartan and Tam’o Shanters. Their seriousness was unnerving, and he was glad to leave the train. What was he becoming that the stare of even a young child could frighten him so?

Two days after Erwin’s injury Pfirsich arrived at the house at Herrlingen. He was greeted by his nephew, Manfred. “Uncle! Terrible news!”

Pfirsich’s heart almost stopped. His first thought was: please God, not Erwin.

Manfred continued, “Somebody’s tried to kill the Führer!”

“Did they succeed?” Pfirsich knew he must sound irritated, and he didn’t mean to take it out on Manfred.

“No, thank goodness.” Manfred positively glowed with relief.

“Verdammt und zugenäht! Can no-one do anything right?” One look at his startled nephew reminded him that not only had Manfred never heard his Uncle yell like that, he had never heard him swear. “I’m sorry, dear. Where is your Mother?”

Lucie came down the stairs, “Who...? Pfirsich is it you, shouting like that?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You have seen Erwin? How is he?”

“The injury is rather serious,” he said. He wasn’t going to lie to Lucie, but the look on her face almost broke his heart.

“Will he live?”

“I don’t know, it seems more than likely and I hope so. Darling, I am sorry.”

She turned away, “Why won’t they let me go to him? I can’t get a pass and I’m his wife!”

They don’t trust you, he thought. Oh God, Lucie, I have been doing you such an injustice.

“I’ll take your things to your room, Uncle.” Manfred bent to pick them up.

“No!” said Lucie, sharply. “He can do it himself!”

Pfirsich’s room looked exactly as he had left it, almost as if the events of the last few months and years were a dream and he was here on leave. Not home from school, those memories belonged to Mama’s old house. Mama had died in 1941 and Erwin had insisted that his brother come and live with them at least until the end of the war, but he had never really known what Lucie made of the arrangement. Pfirsich sat on the bed, face in his hands. He heard the door shut and he looked up. He stood at once, Lucie had never come into his room before.

“Do you really want the Führer dead?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, very quietly.

“So does Erwin.”

Even Pfirsich was shocked. “Lucie?”

“Sit down, Pfirsich! It’s your room.” He sat. She went on, “Erwin has told me that he is prepared to use his reputation with the Allies to make a truce even against the Führer’s wishes.”

“He didn’t tell me.”

“He distrusts your friendship with Obergruppenführer Maisel. You look shocked.”

Pfirsich looked up at her in astonishment. “I am not ‘friends’ with Obergruppenführer Maisel. I hate him.”

“That is not how it looks to Erwin and I. Pfirsich, you have been having dinner with him at least once a week for months. You travel the length and breadth of France to see him, what are we supposed to think?”

“You might ask me.”

She laughed, though not kindly. “Oh, Pfirsich, no-one would ask you about your private life. You might tell them.”

“Would that be so bad?”

“I wouldn’t want Manfred to hear it.”

“Of course not. I’m sorry about this, Lucie. I have to show you something.” Ignoring her shock he unbuttoned his jacket and slipped it off, following it with his shirt which he dropped on the floor; then turned to show his back, heard her sharp intake of breath.

“Who...”

“Ow! Don’t touch, it hurts. This is my ‘friendship’ with Obergruppenführer Maisel. He wanted information from me about Erwin, and this is how he chose to get it.”

“So you were the source of the leaks. I knew you weren’t to be trusted.”

He slipped his shirt back on. “I had no choice!”

“And Maisel? It was clear in Berlin he liked you.”

“When in Berlin?” This was the second time someone had said he had met Maisel before that day in Laon. “I don’t remember meeting him there.”

“You were with Erwin and I, just before we went to an evening reception. He asked who you were, and I realised he admired you.”

“You think he is my lover?” Pfirsich was horrified. “That butcher? Why didn’t you ask me? Say something?”

“One doesn’t.”

“Not to a queer?”

She smiled, the first sign of humanity he’d seen in her that day. “Not to anyone. There’s no point telling someone their lover is unsuitable.”

Despite himself Pfirsich grinned, “That’s true.”

 

Though his recovery was painfully slow Erwin survived his injuries; however he was left with partial paralysis of his arm and a lingering difficulty in reading. Pfirsich asked for continued leave so that he could be with his brother and his brother’s wife during the convalescent period. This was granted so easily he thought he detected a feeling that none of the Wehrmacht Generals wanted him under their command. He didn’t know what Lucie told Erwin, and didn’t ask, but it still seemed that he and Erwin were still not quite yet on their old footing. He was unhappy about it but didn’t know what to do.

He worried about Rosen constantly and wondered if he should beg for Erwin’s help, but two things stopped him. He was not sure if his brother was well enough to hear the horrible truth about the camps. If he did not know already, hearing it, while it might break his faith in the Führer, might also be a stress his frail strength couldn’t take. Added to which Field Marshal Rommel making a fuss about the disappearance of an Oberleutnant of the Luftwaffe would only bring the wrong sort of attention and they had enough of that already.

He knew the house was watched constantly, Gestapo men in plain clothes followed him whenever he left and he discovered that they did the same to Lucie, Manfred and even Erwin himself. Nor was Erwin unaware of it, with his typically Schwabian sense of humour, he suggested one day that they all head out in different directions to see how the Gestapo coped.

One morning in late September Pfirsich arrived at breakfast to find a letter by his plate. He recognised the writing at once. “An invitation from Obergruppenführer Maisel,” he remarked, opening it. “Oh. Dinner.” Of the two ‘dinner’ was always worse than ‘lunch’. “He’s in Ulm.” From the expression on Erwin’s face he knew that Lucie had told him the truth of his ‘friendship’ with the Obergruppenführer.

“Don’t go,” Erwin suggested.

He handed Erwin the invitation, “I don’t think I have any alternative.”

“Hmmm. No.” He read it and passed it to Lucie, who frowned.

“I just wish I knew what he wanted,” Pfirsich said.

“You are not usually this stupid,” Erwin told him. “He’s obsessed with you.”

“Manfred! Leave the table!” Lucie ordered.

“I haven’t finished!” Manfred protested.

“Take it with you,” Lucie said.

“No need, my dear. We’ll go to my study.” Erwin led the way out, followed by Lucie and Pfirsich.

As they left Pfirsich heard Manfred mutter, “I never find out anything,” resentfully. Even in these circumstances the typically adolescent complaint made him smile.

“Now, Pfirsich.” Erwin asked, “At La Roche Guyon, what did he ask you?”

Pfirsich outlined his most usual interests: supply, the Field Marshal’s mood, orders he had sent.

Erwin thought for a moment. He said: “He asked you about yourself?”

“Er...yes.”

“Always?”

“Usually.” Pfirsich was puzzled.

“And he wanted details? Personal details?”

“Yes.”

“Na, that’s it. It’s you he’s interested in, not what you can tell him. The rest of the information he could have got from Hostaffer, or that drunk Behrendt.”

“Or von Tempelhoff,” said Pfirsich resignedly.

“Tempelhoff? No, he was working for me. Poor Tempelhoff, I’m damn sure the blackbacks got to him.”

Pfirsich sat down suddenly. Someone else he had wrongly distrusted. “Oh, Gott.”

“If it’s any consolation, Brüderlein, Tempelhoff told me there was nothing between you and Maisel and I ignored him.” Erwin sighed and sat down behind the desk. “I have never asked you about your private life, I thought it best. If I had been a real brother to you, none of this would have happened.”

“If I hadn’t been queer you would have asked.”

“Probably,” admitted Erwin.

“Then it’s his fault,” said Lucie. “He chose to be queer.”

“I didn’t!” Pfirsich protested.

“He’s right, he didn’t,” said Erwin. “He was queer even when he was a baby, I remember.”

“Erwin!” Pfirsich was mortified.

“Oh, Pfirsich! You didn’t want to be friends with any boy who wouldn’t kiss you and your ‘best friend’ was the one who did it best. Mama was forever explaining to the other boys’ mothers that you did it in fun. You were told to kiss the girls instead but you refused.”

“I’d have smacked him,” said Lucie.

“Mama thought of that. It didn’t make the slightest difference. Except he got his friends to kiss him behind the potting shed instead of in front of the French windows.”

“Erwin! Please!”

“Who was that boy who was your best friend?”

“I don’t remember.” Pfirsich sighed.

“I do! It was that Jewish lad, Herschel. What happened to him?”

“His parents sent him to stay in England - one of the Kindertransports - in 1936. This isn’t helping me with what I should tell Obergruppenführer Maisel.”

“Tell him that I will go where the Führer sends me, and that I’m looking forward to seeing action again.” Erwin paused, “And tell him that I have said that if he harms you there will be trouble for him.”

All fair enough. However it did not help him with Rosen about whom Erwin knew nothing even now.

 

The Obergruppenführer was staying in the most expensive hotel in Ulm; Pfirsich was picked up from his home by two SS officers in a car and shown to the large private apartment the Obergruppenführer had taken. They behaved perfectly correctly but it was clear they were there to prevent him having any clever ideas about escape.

To his surprise he was not made to kneel immediately, he was escorted to a table, on the other side of which sat the Obergruppenführer, and was offered a seat, which he took.

The Obergruppenführer looked up, seeming to see him for the first time. “Heil Hitler! Herr Oberst Rommel, how kind of you to drop in.” At a signal the two officers took up stations either side of the door, near enough to see but a little too far to hear.

The Obergruppenführer pushed a photograph across the table. It was Rosen. He looked frighteningly thin and he was holding a copy of Paris-Match. The hint was obvious. Pfirsich put the picture down, nausea threatened.

“He’s not looking well is he, your friend Rosen?”

There was nothing Pfirsich could say. He stared down at the picture. At least Rosen was still alive.

“But I have a proposal for you,” went on the Obergruppenführer. “I will free your friend.” Pfirsich looked up. “But you will never see him again. Because you will be with me.”

“Herr Obergruppenführer?” Pfirsich was astonished.

“You will give up your ‘Rosen Kavalier’ and become mine. You will do this in return for his freedom.”

“And when Germany loses the war?”

The Obergruppenführer smiled. “That is not a problem. I have made arrangements to leave for South America as soon as it becomes necessary. I will miss Germany of course, but sacrifices must be made.” Pfirsich listened in frozen silence, Erwin had been right. “What do you say, sweetheart? Are you willing?” The Obergruppenführer sounded gentle, kind. An illusion. Pfirsich had not forgotten the months of beatings, the humiliation to which he had been subject.

“No! I can’t...”

“This is too much of a surprise, eh? You need time to think it over. I would be a better lover than your clod of a Rosen, and is it too much to ask? Now, schatz liebster, how is your brother?”

Before Pfirsich was escorted away the Obergruppenführer said, “Think it over. I will expect you tomorrow for lunch.” The words sounded all-too-reasonable, but Pfirsich didn’t miss the implied threat.

Now he had to tell Erwin what had happened. Darkness settled over his soul. Could he tell his brother about this obscene offer? The hint was clear enough, and dare he refuse if it could mean Rosen’s freedom, even his life? Not that he trusted the Obergruppenführer. On the other hand, evil as he was, he had come through with all his promises so far. Did anyone ever get out of those concentration camps? Was Rosen’s life not worth the sacrifice of his body? The thoughts ran round and round in his mind like insane mice trapped in a cage, the Obergruppenführer made him unsure even of himself.

Lucie and Erwin tried to treat him as normally as possible, but he escaped to his room as soon as he decently could. He was faced with a stark choice. He could allow Maisel to do as he wanted and take the chance that the offer was genuine and Rosen would be freed or he could refuse and Rosen would certainly die. He had few illusions about how pleasant an experience sex with the Obergruppenführer might prove, but he refused to allow that to be a consideration. Pfirsich had never been with anyone he had not wanted, at least at the time, and whom he had not been sure wanted him. He could see little attraction in an unwilling partner, but obviously Maisel did not see life in quite the same terms.

He arrived at the hotel next day accompanied by the two guards, as before. This time however they remained outside the doors.

“My dear Herr Oberst,” the Obergruppenführer greeted him effusively, and offered him a chair. Pfirsich was glad to sit, he was cold and tired for he had not slept well. “And your decision?”

“If you will arrange for Rosen to be freed by the 15th of October I will do as you ask.” He had decided to put a date on Rosen’s freedom, otherwise it would quite likely be held over him as a threat against his good behaviour. He had also decided that when and if Rosen was freed, or if he had not been freed by the specified date, he would tell Erwin. He would have to.

The Obergruppenführer thought for a moment. “That is fair. And you will do as I ask in the meantime?”

“If it is necessary.”

“As a guarantee of your good faith. I know what a liar you can be, schatz liebster.”

Rosen could call him that. From this man it was an obscenity, let alone the playful tone in which it was said.

“Come now, let us begin.”

Kissing Maisel felt wrong. He was the wrong height, the wrong size and he tasted - different. Pfirsich realised he had grown accustomed to Rosen, to his body, the French cigarettes he smoked, the leather of the flying jacket he wore. He felt a knot of misery harden inside him and clamped down on it pitilessly. He couldn’t give way now. Later, he told himself. If you’re going to faint or cry do it later.

Maisel was unbuttoning Pfirsich’s jacket and he allowed it woodenly, trying to relax as much as he could. Pfirsich felt completely uninterested, he was not aroused, he was not even sure that his mind was in the same place as his body. Knowing that Maisel would notice, he tried to concentrate on what was happening, but his thoughts were like flying birds, circling round, uncatchable.

Pfirsich felt Maisel stroke his face and he very nearly bit him for his trouble. To get away, he bent to take his boots off, he could usually do it if he had to, and was helped with the rest of his clothes.

Pfirsich realised the Obergruppenführer was out to prove himself a thoughtful lover but his gentleness almost made Pfirsich scream. He would rather have Rosen rape him in front of the entire Wehrmacht than this false consideration. He could not even pretend that this was Rosen, his guilt was drowning him as it was.

He did not want to see Maisel’s body but helped him with his clothes obediently. Once Maisel was naked Pfirsich was careful not to look down, he concentrated on one hairy shoulder. Against him he could feel that Maisel was strongly built, a big man, not slim as Rosen was, his muscles lacking the firm definition of Rosen’s.

Reluctantly he allowed Maisel to kiss him again, conscious of the other’s hot cock against his thigh and the hairy coolness of the scrotum below. Pfirsich fought off disgust, being sick would only make things worse.

Pfirsich was relieved when Maisel turned him onto his face, he did not want to look into Maisel’s face. Entry didn’t hurt much, Pfirsich had oiled himself very carefully hoping that Maisel was not experienced enough with men to know the difference. He tried not to stiffen as Maisel grunted and pushed within him. He found his mind drifting, thinking about other things, and he wondered if all prostitutes felt this, the only one he knew well enough to ask was his son’s mother, Babette. If he ever saw her again he must ask about it.

He felt Maisel pull free, and roll him onto his back. Maisel kissed him again, and Pfirsich didn’t really know what to do with his hands. In the end he rested them lightly on Maisel’s shoulders while he fought off a desire to strangle.

“There, that wasn’t too unpleasant, was it?” Maisel asked. “You enjoyed it didn’t you?”

“Yes,” agreed Pfirsich, politely. Lying through his teeth.

Every day they went through the same procedure. Maisel took Pfirsich’s body and Pfirsich agreed that it had been pleasant. But the date he had set for Rosen’s freedom came ever closer. The 10th of October. The 11th, the day he was forced to suck Maisel’s cock. The 12th. The 13th.

The 14th. Returning from the hotel Pfirsich closed the gate; he looked back and saw a car outside the house, Gestapo and closer than usual. Erwin had been walking the dogs and joined him on the path to the house. “Are you ill?” Erwin asked.

“No,” said Pfirsich. “Just tired.”

“Maisel still questioning you every day?”

“Yes.” This was the excuse he had given Erwin for his daily visits.

“What’s he doing to you Brüderlein? I know you have asked me not to interfere, and so far I haven’t, but...”

“You don’t want to know.”

Erwin looked puzzled, “Is he hurting you?”

“No.” At least, Pfirsich told himself, not physically.

Erwin stood for a moment, he was watching the dogs playing and seemed deep in thought. Suddenly Erwin said, “He’s raping you, isn’t he? And you’re letting him? Why? Pfirsich? Pfirsich!”

He heard Erwin calling him as he ran into the house. He pulled the chain with Rosen’s ring over his head to clutch in his hand. As he climbed the stairs he heard the telephone ring.

 

“I’ve had a phone call,” Erwin said, unnecessarily.

Pfirsich had been lost in thoughts of Rosen and it took him a moment to register the remark. “What?” Unpleasant scenarios raced through his head.

“They want to talk to me about my ‘future employment’,” depths of sarcasm filled Erwin’s voice. “I know what that means: I’m to be offered a choice between a public trial on a charge of treachery, or death by my own hand.”

“Erwin! Why? Who could order this?” In his surprise Pfirsich dropped the chain and Rosen’s ring.

“Don’t be stupid, Pfirsich! Only Hitler could. Do you imagine even Göring or Himmler would dare without his authority? I am a Field Marshal after all!”

Pfirsich shifted uneasily. “No, of course not. But why? What have you done?”

“It’s that attempt on his life. He thinks I was involved though I can’t imagine why. What’s this?” Erwin picked up the ring and the chain. “An engagement ring? Where did you get it?”

Pfirsich begged, “Please, Erwin! Give it back!” He knew Erwin’s sense of humour.

“Not until you tell.”

“Erwin! Darling, is this a time to tease?”

“I’m the one who’s going to die.”

Horrified Pfirsich asked, “What do you mean?”

“Na, those two Generals who came to see me, they offered me a bargain - I commit suicide and I won’t be charged with treachery. I’ve agreed to the suicide and I shall ask for clemency for the family. They will agree. I will take whatever it is they give me, keep my side of the bargain, and hope they keep theirs. But if I know them, Brüderlein, whatever clemency they offer won’t extend to you, you’re a special case.” He thought for a moment. “Now tell, who gave you this? Who is he?”

“You’re going to die and you’re wondering who gave me a ring!”

“So indulge me. Who was it?”

For a moment Pfirsich considered not answering, then he said, “Rosen Kavalier.”

“Oberleutnant Rosen Kavalier the crazy Luftwaffe pilot?”

“You remember him?” Pfirsich was surprised, Erwin had met Rosen a couple of times, but never for long.

“How could I forget a man who downed a Spitfire with a Stuka without firing a single shot? He’s mad! But he’s a damn good pilot. Here, have your ring.” Erwin returned it and Pfirsich slipped the chain over his head. Very much the Field Marshal, Erwin said, “You must go to the British and give yourself up.” Pfirsich’s shock and uncertainty must have shown on his face for Erwin went on, “Is it that you won’t leave this Kavalier?”

“He’s been ‘disappeared’,” was as much of an explanation as he could manage.

“And that swine has been holding him over you all this time? You fool, Pfirsich, you should have told me! You know the dangers and I can’t protect you any more!” More softly he said, “You must go, Brüderlein. And God be with you, both of you.”

The car that came to take Erwin away already had three men in it. One of them he knew, it was Obergruppenführer Maisel. He had been having sex with his brother’s murderer.

There was a breathless hush in the house while they waited. Lucie was white and obviously frightened, but there was nothing Pfirsich could do for her. Fifteen minutes dragged by. Twenty. Half an hour. Then the telephone rang again. Lucie jumped as though she had been struck, then went to answer it. She was back a moment later, still white and now shaking. “It was the hospital at Ulm. It’s happened. He’s dead. Erwin’s dead.”

“Lucie, I...” He started, but there was nothing he could say.

“Drive me there,” she said. “I want to go to Erwin.”

“Very well.” Pfirsich couldn’t see what it might achieve, but there was no point arguing with her.

Pfirsich went to his room to collect his greatcoat, he picked up a carefully prepared package of documents as he did so and slipped them into the deepest pocket. There might be a chance for him. He was surprised by the clarity of his mind, it was as if he was watching someone else do these things, perhaps a film of Pfirsich Rommel, not the man himself.

At the hospital all was chaos. They were hustled from place to place by doctors, orderlies and Gestapo men until Lucie demanded to see Erwin’s body. A private room was doing duty as a temporary morgue, but it wasn’t until they got there they discovered that Erwin’s had not been the only death. Pfirsich had been covertly looking for Obergruppenführer Maisel, but the last place he expected to see him was on a hospital trolley covered with a sheet. He recognised him by his boots, he’d had to kneel and lick them often enough.

Lucie stepped forward and the orderly pulled the sheet back for her to see Erwin. Pfirsich found that he was at the back of the crowd and for the first time he was not being watched. He slipped away; alone he was just another army officer in a greatcoat. He borrowed a car and drove to the railway station.

Pfirsich had orders signed by the Field Marshal which sent him to Köln, as well as a travel pass and his other identity documents. It was a long journey from Ulm, but Köln was as near the Allied lines as he could reach.

On the way he was questioned several times, but as he was an officer in uniform and with the correct papers, there was no reason for the Gefepo to detain him.

Köln was not a city he knew and when he saw it he was glad. Damage from Allied bombing raids meant that most of the people lived in basements like rats, and he saw their frightened faces looking up at him as he passed.

He did not report to his given destination, he deliberately held back and then saw his opportunity. Two junior officers drew up in a Köbelwagen; this he commandeered, playing the arrogant Wehrmacht officer to the hilt. He crossed into France a few hours later. From here on he was in danger from both sides. He was alone, suspicious in itself, he had no orders, odd for a man of his rank and if caught they would assume him to be a deserter and he could be shot. He was in a uniform which invited the French partisans to pick him off. If the British saw him without warning they would certainly kill him on sight.

The first fighting units he saw were German, he skirted round the back of them with great care; being shot at might be one way to find the British, but it was not one he relished.

His mind was quite clear, more so than it had been for some time. Perhaps betraying Rosen was the ultimate treachery, he was contemplating betraying his country without a qualm. Everything seemed to have crisp edges, reality thrown sharply into focus. A shell landed nearby, the explosion bloomed like a flower then the blast hit him. He made too good a target in the car, the British could not be far ahead and had seen him. He stopped and jumped out; as he ran he was trying to work out where the shot had come from. He was thrown to the ground as another hit the vehicle, blowing it up and he lay on the ground as the pieces crashed round him. He rolled over to stand up and brush himself off. He could hear tanks coming closer and he climbed a bank and dived under cover, he still wanted to see them before they saw him.

They were British, he recognised the lead tank immediately, an old Matilda mark IV. He waited until they were almost upon him and slid back down the bank to stand in the road, hands in the air.

The tank stopped and the gun was trained on him. He faced it calmly. The commander’s head popped up. “What are you doing?” he asked.

Pfirsich smiled, he couldn’t help it. “Surrendering,” he said, in English.

“Wait there.” The tank commander radioed back and a land rover came up the side of the column. It stopped and two men jumped out.

One of them - a young Major - spoke: “Name, rank and number,” he asked in very bad German. Pfirsich told him, trying not to laugh. If he kept grinning at them they would think him mad. He was disarmed: it tickled, which made him smile again.

“You find surrendering amusing?” asked the young Major.

“Not at all,” said Pfirsich, in English.

“You didn’t tell me you spoke English!”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Comedian,” said the Major, disgusted.

Pfirsich used to make that accusation of Erwin - and Rosen. There was nothing he could do now for Erwin and little enough for Rosen. He went where he was told and answered the questions put to him as best he could. As his knowledge of senior echelons in the Wehrmacht was thought to be useful and his knowledge of languages more so he was eventually attached to Colonel Fraser’s intelligence battalion.

 

Melvin was silent for a long time then he asked, “Did you never consider rescue?”

“Constantly. But I didn’t know where you were.”

“Of course not.”

Pfirsich said, “Did you hate me?”

“Sometimes. When they were beating me, usually. The rest of the time I concentrated on staying alive.” He sighed. “So you had this SS Obergruppenführer. How big was he?”

“Melvin!”

“Go on, how big?”

“Not as large as you.”

“So not nearly as big as you?” Melvin sniggered. “That must have pissed him off.”

“It did.”

“I’m sorry he’s dead.”

“Why?” Pfirsich was shocked.

“I’d like to hunt him down and kill him. What happened in that car? How did he end up as dead as your brother?”

Pfirsich sighed, “We will never know.”

Melvin said, “You’re not wearing my ring.”

“It’s here.” Pfirsich pulled the chain over his head and handed it back.

Melvin grabbed his wrist, the left, his grip surprisingly strong. Roughly he pushed the ring onto Pfirsich’s finger. “I never said you could stop wearing it. What do they say? Oh yes, you have to ask me to ‘release’ you from our engagement, and you haven’t asked.”

Pfirsich turned the ring around on his finger, the chain made it feel strange. “Do you release me, then?” He opened the catch and pulled the chain free.

“No,” Melvin said. But not a word of forgiveness.

The British and Americans were trying to advance on Berlin, but with almost incredible desperation the remains of the Wehrmacht and the Waffen-SS defended German towns and cities.

Pfirsich was called upon to translate German forces radio, the usual exhortations to faith in National Socialism were being varied slightly with an almost rational approach, but one day they picked up a broadcast by Doctor Goebbels, head of Reich propaganda. “Germans ask themselves anxiously,” he heard Goebbels say, “how can we still win this war? Germany’s chance to withstand and beat back this onslaught remains.” Behind him he heard Melvin laugh. Realising this was going to be impossible if Melvin continued in that vein he reached for a pen to write all this down. He’d translate later. “Before we reach the lowest limit of material resistance we can reach a point where our empty canisters have again been filled and our empty pockets stuffed full.” In English that would look ridiculous, Pfirsich thought. Goebbels went on, “Germans have their hands full with criminals in the east, meanwhile the British stab us in the back with vile treachery.”

By now Melvin was almost hysterical with laughter. “So the British are supposed to fight for the Wehrmacht?” he said, for once in German.

“Oh, shut up Melvin!” he hissed, and in doing so he missed the next part. The bizarre broadcast took on a sternly rigorous tone.

“Our sufferings seem sometimes unendurable. It can easily be understood that weaklings feel that they can no longer stand it and yearn for an end to their ordeal whatever the cost. For those who shirk, the bullet, which has hit so many fighters for freedom in this war is too good. They will die the death of ignominy.

“There is a lethargy among the lax and weak. Where in these bitter days can the homeland’s almost god-like strength come from? From the Führer. We shall never succumb. We shall never be altogether broken because the Führer dwells within us.”

Even Melvin didn’t find that funny. He took Pfirsich’s notes and read them through. “Why don’t they just give up? Don’t they know they can’t win?”

“They’re German officers, dear. We don’t know when we’re beaten.”

“We? You and I do.”

“No, Melvin. Face it. All we’ve changed is sides.” Pfirsich took the notes and started on the translation for Colonel Fraser.

“Ah,” said Melvin. “My Pfirsich is back.”

Pfirsich looked up. “What do you mean?”

“I’m getting heartily sick of the sweet obedient little wife. You can’t live your life for ever apologising for being alive. Don’t even try.”

“Melvin!” Pfirsich could see that half the camp was watching them, British reserve notwithstanding.

“I survived the camp because I’m a bastard. I did what I had to, and some of it was worse than you can possibly imagine. I survived and other people died because I did.” He paused for breath. “You did what you thought was right, what you thought was the best thing at the time. And sometimes you were wrong, mistaken. Or didn’t see a solution where one existed. But Gott in Himmel! That doesn’t make you evil. Just human.”

“Did the people who ran the camps think they were doing their best?” Pfirsich stared at Goebbels’ words. “Melvin, what are we going to do when this is over?”

“I don’t know. I do know I’m not doing that translation for you.”

Pfirsich bent to the task. Melvin was wrong, those who condoned evil were tarred by the same brush as those who committed it, and one day soon he’d realise that.

 

The war moved on. The unit heard of the Russians advancing in the East, but their troubles were with the last of the SS and the Wehrmacht, still defending the Fatherland. Their unit was ordered north, to Hamburg..

The Dutch resistance, still fighting on, issued a statement: “A people of ancient culture is threatened with extinction by Hitler’s barbarians... We in occupied Holland stand fast.” They made it clear that they did not ask for pity, and that pity would be unwelcome. Given the tales of brutality and starvation coming out of this territory it was astonishing, and moving.

German radio stressed the importance of fighting to the last man, woman and child, and emphasised the sacrifices all must make. The Bolshevik menace was held up as something which must be resisted at all costs, and though Pfirsich had no love for communism -- as an ideology it seemed to him as dangerous and as desiccated as Nazism -- he admired the spirit of the resistance, many of whom were recruited from the communists.

Spring 1945 was said to be very beautiful in England. Among the refugees, prisoners, survivors, and troops in Germany it was difficult to credit that there was beauty anywhere, or had ever been.

 

On 1 May the news broke. Hitler was dead. Suicide. Pfirsich had a momentary hope that the Wehrmacht would immediately surrender, a hope unfulfilled.

The troops in Hamburg resisted for three more days. Fraser’s unit arrived when the fighting was over to find a pile of rubble where had once been the city. Whole quarters of the city were devastated, the mile upon mile of burned and blackened walls were mute testimony to the efficiency of the allied bombing raids, raids which had started in 1943.

Melvin was silent, he looked pale and shocked; Pfirsich remembered that he had grown up here, Hamburg had been his home. In some places it was not even possible to see where the streets had run. Pfirsich had seen what had been left of Düsseldorf and it hadn’t been like this. Melvin had been silent for so long that it was some time before Pfirsich realised he wasn’t with them. He caught sight of the still painfully thin figure in the distance and followed. Chapman in his turn stayed close to Pfirsich, muttering irritably, “Where the hell is he going?” Pfirsich didn’t answer.

Several times they lost him only to find him again; at last thinking that they had finally been given the slip they walked right past him. He was sitting on a nondescript pile of rubble; from the few walls that remained it looked as if it had been a small narrow street of crowded houses.

“Dear, that doesn’t look safe,” said Pfirsich awkwardly. “What if there’s a cellar?”

“There isn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“This was my home...my parent’s home, before the war.” Melvin was turning something over and over in his fingers, Pfirsich couldn’t see what.

“Oh.”

The three of them stood and looked at each other. Melvin said, “Pfirsich? You remember you’re engaged to me?”

“Yes.” Though the more Pfirsich thought about it the more he thought that piece of romanticism idiotic on both their parts.

Melvin slid down the pile of bricks and asked, “Do you believe in marriage?”

“I suppose so.”

“Not good enough. Do you or don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Define it.”

Standing in the remains of Hamburg outside what had once been his family home Melvin chose now to ask his first philosophical question? “Na,” said Pfirsich, conscious of the curious presence of Chapman. “It’s when two people decide they love each other and swear to stay together and be faithful.”

“And the state? And the church?”

“They make it legal and binding.”

“Are they necessary?”

Pfirsich considered the point. “No,” he finally decided. “Not really.”

Melvin stood for a moment in silence. Then he said: “Manfred Pfirsich Marie Rommel, will you marry me?”

“Yes.” Pfirsich was dumbfounded, he answered without thinking.

“Good.” Melvin took his hand and slid a brass curtain ring onto his finger above the gold engagement ring. “Consider yourself married. I’ll get you a decent ring some other time.” He turned to Chapman, “You’re our witness.”

The kiss Melvin subjected him to was rough and harsh. Chapman’s expression was one of total astonishment, Pfirsich thought it was because Melvin had kissed him in the street until he heard the remark of, “Didn’t give you chance to think it over, did he!”

Pfirsich blushed. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, reaching out to touch Melvin’s face.

“I never had anything in my life that was mine before you. I am never parting with you.” And that seemed to say it all. Forgiveness didn’t enter into it and love was never mentioned.

They heard that the fight was moving closer to Berlin, and to the North of them in Denmark. They sat in Hamburg questioning foreign slave workers and detainees.

All German broadcasts in the last days stressed that they had no reason to be ashamed of defeat. They were told that the cause was good and great and only the power of the Allied forces had overcome them.

There were fulsome tributes to the Führer, it was said that he had, “Chosen a soldier’s death, and set an example of inexorable willpower and singleness of purpose.” They were told that, “Even in the hostile world every personality of character will be moved by the purity and greatness of the man.”

Hearing this, Pfirsich gagged. To him the idea of an honourable defeat was an absurdity; the only thing worse would have been to win. All German honour, even the most chivalrous and brave, was stained by the barbarity he had seen at the camps. No sacrifice would be enough. There were no amends that could be made. And he had been part of it, the same patriotism that sustained the Wehrmacht’s loyalty and his own had led to that hideousness. The place Melvin had been in had been bad. It had been unspeakable. But there was worse to come. They now heard of the horrors of Bergen-Belsen and Dachau.

“We thought we were civilised,” he whispered. “No-one could be civilised and treat people so. There is no excuse for this. There never will be.” He had been in the operations room of the Allied HQ. It was based in one of the few buildings in Hamburg still with four walls and a roof. He walked out into the camp without realising he’d moved. Alone in Chapman’s tent he picked up a pistol and checked that it was loaded.

It was taken from him quite firmly. “No,” said Chapman. “That would be too easy.”

“Have you ever seriously considered it?” asked Melvin from the tent flap. Chapman watched him come in. “I see you haven’t.”

“And you have?” countered Chapman.

“Several times. Now sod off.” Melvin looked down at Pfirsich. “I’ve been talking to Buckhurst, we’re being sent to a prison camp in England.” He picked up the discarded pistol and disarmed it with thoughtless skill. “You don’t have the right, you know,” he said closing it. “Your death would be meaningless, just another name to add to the list of people who couldn’t face the truth. If anything, I am more to blame than you.”

“You! Schatz liebster, no!”

Melvin looked at him cynically, “I was in the Hitler Youth, remember? That I ended up in a camp has a certain irony.”

“This isn’t like you.”

“You mean it’s not like me to think?” Melvin sat down and pulled Pfirsich into his arms.

It felt strange to be held by one who was still so thin, Pfirsich was almost afraid to move in case he hurt him. “I didn’t say that,” he said.

“But you meant it, and you’re right.”

“You’ve changed.”

Melvin sighed, “Not as much as you might think. I was fortunate. Really, I was one of the lucky ones. They called me the ‘strange prisoner’ and the ‘special one’ and now I know why. I was ‘strange’ and ‘special’ because of you; I was the gun being held to your head.

“And I was lucky because one of the Capos, the leaders among the prisoners, recognised me. He was a ‘green’, a criminal who remembered me from the waterfront, from my days in the gangs. He couldn’t believe I was queer, and when I told him I’d been sleeping with a Colonel for three years he thought I was insane.

“However, mad or not he made me orderly on his block and his chief enforcer.” Melvin looked meditative. “If it’s any consolation I was not thought the worst of the enforcers. I wasn’t kind, I wouldn’t have kept the position long if I had been, but the prisoners on my block didn’t get the shit kicked out of them for no reason, except by the SS, and when they died the body generally didn’t get chewed by the others. At least, not if I noticed.”

“That’s...”

“Disgusting? I thought so, but it happened. There were things I was prepared to do to survive, but cannibalism wasn’t one of them. Just about.

“When the numbers of dead became too much for the crematorium they burned them outside. The job I really hated along with every other prisoner - and the guards - was loading the fires. You could never be sure they were all dead, and the stink... I had to be blind drunk to do it, and so did anyone else. Still-burning people staggering out through the smoke to be gunned down...it makes me sick to think of it.” He looked at Pfirsich. “You don’t know what to say.” Pfirsich shook his head. “I told you it was worse than you can possibly imagine. Do you want a divorce?”

“No,” Pfirsich’s voice was almost a whisper.

“I can’t believe I even offered.” He leaned forward and kissed Pfirsich quite deliberately and thoroughly.

“Melvin! Not now!”

“It’ll prove to me I’m alive.”

So Pfirsich let him. Despite the danger of Chapman coming back, and the sheer strangeness of it after such a conversation he had no desire to withhold anything. And the only thing Melvin said to him throughout was, “You are so beautiful.” Which was horribly ironic because he had never felt less beautiful in his life.

Pfirsich went to find Buckhurst, who by now had an air of weary panic. Before he could speak Buckhurst said, “I’ve been looking for you. You’re on the next transport to England.”

“Why?”

“The MO’s worried about Ramsbottom, at long last. He thinks a prison camp in England would be better for him than being hauled round Germany and we can’t spare any of our men to go with him. The Old Man thinks he’s right, so you both leave today.”

“But...” It felt to Pfirsich as if he was leaving a job half done. “We haven’t finished,” he protested.

“And we won’t, for months yet. You don’t have a choice, Rommel. In the Old Man’s eyes you’re just another prisoner. So is Ramsbottom. You’re both going and that’s an end to it. Besides which they want to question you about someone called Wilhelm Taliaferro.” Pfirsich went cold, and the guilt crashed in on him like an avalanche.

 

Through Germany they and the other suspected Nazis intended for internment in England travelled in cramped trains sitting on bare boards. Every few hours they stopped and were given food of sorts. In France they halted at some nameless station and were sworn at, called pigs and worse, and spat upon. Some of the prisoners looked afraid, others angry but Pfirsich noticed that Melvin seemed hardly to pay any attention. “I’ve been sworn at by experts,” Melvin told him, with a ghost of a smile. “The SS were very good at it.”

Finally they arrived at a French port and the officer in charge of the transport went to report their arrival, they had to wait for a boat to take them to England. He returned smiling, the first time Pfirsich had seen him smile and he told them that a million men in North West Germany, poor beleaguered Holland, and Denmark had surrendered.

 

Their arrival in England was in total contrast to the journey across France. They were given a decent meal, and then taken to a camp. To Pfirsich’s astonishment they travelled in a decent train with proper upholstered seats, and his surprise was shared by the rest of the prisoners.

Even from the train, England looked shabby and as they approached London they could see damage done by Luftwaffe bombing raids. It seemed completely different to the country Pfirsich had known when at school in the 20’s. Or maybe he had changed.

Melvin looked troubled, he said, “I wonder how much of that I did.” Pfirsich looked at him, astonished that he should be concerned after the damage the RAF had done to Hamburg.

The camp at last. Pfirsich felt as though he were made of bits of an old ship, and stood up very slowly and stiffly. Melvin had fallen asleep during the last part of the journey and Pfirsich hardly liked to move him, however he bounced awake as he always did.

The people on the railway platform walked round the small knot of prisoners waiting on the station. They didn’t speak, but there was none of the hatred to which they had been subjected in France. Some of the internees, those of high rank, were taken away by truck, Pfirsich was told they were going to a camp in London. He, Melvin and a few others were loaded onto another train and taken North.

The camp was built from brick and corrugated iron, it didn’t look welcoming. As always they had to give name, rank and number. Ahead he heard, “Ramsbottom, Melvin Gonville. Oberleutnant, Luftwaffe,” and his service number. “You want to question me?”

The young sergeant noting the information looked up at him. “That goes without saying, Oberleutnant. We question everybody. Next.”

“Rommel, Manfred Pfirsich Marie. Oberst, Wehrmacht,” and he gave his service number. Pfirsich found the British sergeant’s frankness disarming, but he added, “I’ve already been questioned.”

“Have you, Oberst Rommel? We’ll very likely do it again in any case.”

The camp had obviously been built hastily but it was reasonably warm if not particularly comfortable. They were shown to a hut and allocated beds, Pfirsich looked round.

As officers Pfirsich and Melvin were treated to an early interrogation. They were introduced to a Major Herschfeld and another Sergeant, Tomlinson. Herschfeld spoke perfect German, but it was some time before Pfirsich realised he was Jewish. The questioning, predictably, was to find out if they were Nazi sympathisers. To his surprise they had first decided to question him and Melvin together, concentrating on Melvin.

They were quite direct: “Are you a Nazi?” in German.

“No,” Melvin said, in English.

Then they changed the subject. “Have you next of kin you would like contacted?”

Melvin thought for a moment, then he said, “Yes.” He gave a name so bizarre that Pfirsich wasn’t at all sure he had heard it correctly, “Job Zaccariah Ramsbottom,” and an address in Yorkshire. They wrote it down.

“Were you a member of the Party?” asked the sergeant.

“Yes, and before that the Hitler Youth.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“The HJ? Some of it. It was a lot like I imagine the Scouts are, but more military. Sometimes it was just silly.”

“Oh?” They sounded interested, as if this wasn’t something they heard often.

“Standing around in the cold and being told to be a credit to the Führer. As if he cared.”

“Why did you join?” Tomlinson asked.

“You had to, it was compulsory.”

“And were you? A credit to the Führer?”

Melvin laughed shortly, “No.”

“Was that why you were sent to prison? One of the other prisoners told us.”

“It wasn’t a prison, it was a concentration camp. No, that wasn’t why I was sent there.”

“Then...”

“Why was I there?” Melvin paused, deliberately. “I’m queer. The Nazis don’t like queers. They work them to death before killing them off, but to them we’re right down there with the Jews and the gypsies.” Sitting next to him, with Major Herschfeld on the other side of the table, Pfirsich winced. Melvin went on, “so no, I am not a Nazi. I was a member of the Party but I was young and stupid.”

“And you aren’t a Nazi either?” the Sergeant turned his attention to Pfirsich.

“No,” said Pfirsich.

“Does he look like it?” asked Melvin.

“Is it the case that he had you sent to the camp?”

“It was his name on the orders, but they were forged.” Pfirsich looked at Melvin when he said this. He was surprised, Melvin hadn’t looked as if he believed Pfirsich when Pfirsich had told him, but he now sounded totally convinced.

The British officers weren’t convinced, all they said was, “Really? And the order that led to the death of Wilhelm Taliaferro, that was forged too?”

“Yes,” said Pfirsich, quietly. “The one sending my orderly to the Eastern Front, that was real, I did sign that. I didn’t want to, but I did. But not the others. I suppose...there’s no way you can find out if he survived? His name was...well, on his papers it was Udo Schmidt. His real name was Isador Gülphstein. Poor Udo, I hope he survived.”

“So you’re telling me that the SS went to the enormous trouble of forging your signature on orders?”

“Yes,” said Pfirsich unhappily.

“Why?”

“Look,” said Melvin. “The only reason he didn’t end up like me is because he’s Field Marshal Rommel’s brother.”

So then they asked Pfirsich about Erwin. They did remember, eventually, to ask Pfirsich for his next of kin. He gave them Lucie’s name and address in Herrlingen, wondering if the house was even standing. Even if it were, he thought it unlikely that Lucie would want to contact him.

Later, on the way back to the hut in which they were quartered, he said, “Melvin, why did you tell them you were queer? More discretion, bitte?”

“Why? Pfirsich, do you know how many queers there are?” Melvin was recovered enough now that he no longer shuffled.

“Of course not, how could I?”

“There must be hundreds of thousands, if not millions. In the camp there were never less than a couple of thousand. I reckon they killed ten thousand.”

“But...” Pfirsich started.

“But what? You can’t tell if a man’s queer.” He stopped and looked Pfirsich up and down. “Usually. The only difference between him and all the other men is who he loves, most queers look just like everyone else, that’s why they couldn’t pick us out like the Jews. And most queers think they’re the only one. Then maybe they meet a few more. But none of those little ‘fews’ ever realises there are more, just like them.”

“If they’ve any sense they don’t tell anyone,” said Pfirsich, sharply. More so than he intended.

“Why?”

“Because if your family really find out they try and have you ‘cured’ and tell you they’re doing it from love.”

“Ach, dear heart. So that’s why you don’t like psychiatrists.” Melvin grinned. “What did your family say when it didn’t work?”

“I didn’t tell them.”

“Why not?”

“It was someone to talk to.”

 

A few days later, they sat unexpectedly alone in the bare hut that served as home to 40 men.

“My father,” Melvin remarked, opening his letter. “This is good! I’m a ‘stain on the family name’. I could understand it if the family name was worth spit.”

“Maybe it is, to him.”

“Oh, please! Uncle Joseph was shot in the last war...”

“That’s nothing to be ashamed of,” interjected Pfirsich.

“By his own side. He was executed for cowardice.”

“Oh.”

“We really ought to stay away from wars. We fight on the wrong side. If accidentally recruited onto the right side, we won’t fight. And if you put us in a protected occupation we organise strikes.”

“What!”

“That’s what Uncle Job had been doing with his war.” Melvin put the letter down and lay back.

“Your father seems a patriotic Englishman,” said Pfirsich.

“Who moved to Hamburg to get away.”

“Seems odd to choose Hamburg, it’s not that far away.”

“I think anywhere that wasn’t England would have done. He got drunk in a bar in Sankt Pauli and forgot to keep going. But he does say that Uncle Job is prepared to offer us a home until we can go back to Germany.”

“Both of us?” Pfirsich was puzzled.

“That’s what he says. I have told him about you.”

“And he’s not shocked?”

“Father? What’s he got to be shocked about? My uncle doesn’t mind, he knows you’re German.”

Colonel Davenport sent for Pfirsich next day. A very correct English officer, his white hair made him look older than his years. He pushed a piece of paper and a pen across the desk. “Herr Oberst Rommel, read this and sign it, please.”

Pfirsich read it through twice and finally looked up. “I’m not British. I can’t become something I’m not.”

“Ramsbottom has said that it’s important to you both that you stay together. I don’t pretend to understand, but I have been looking into your case. He doesn’t want to return to Germany, at least not yet, and it appears that the only way for you to stay here is to apply for naturalisation as a British citizen. I’m told that once your application is in, the Home Office may allow you to stay temporarily.”

Pfirsich looked at the paper. He signed it and pushed it back over the desk. He had the curious feeling that he was signing his life away. This was his ‘marriage’ to Melvin made real. It would never get any more real than this, not for them, but they would have a life together, just as he had dreamed of in Paris and in Africa.

 

He knew the Pfirsich Rommel who spent those days in Paris with Germany’s victory shaming him no longer existed, he could only move on. He left Davenport’s office and went to tell Melvin.

End

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone who has very detailed knowledge of the end of the war will realise that I've moved characters around and cut people out and put them in to help move the story along. You'll have to forgive me for that, but I've only done it when I needed to.
> 
> This story is dedicated to my father, he was born on 1 November 1922 and he died on 7 May 1997. Dad read this story, he liked it, he had a hand in editing it, and was a primary source for some of the details. I miss him, and not just because he was the best editor I've ever had.


End file.
